


All's Faire

by hellhoundtheory



Category: Once Upon a Time (TV)
Genre: F/M, Renaissance Faires
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-04-07
Updated: 2014-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-18 12:26:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 40,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1428445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hellhoundtheory/pseuds/hellhoundtheory
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Storybrooke Fairy Tale Faire has been the summer staple of East Coasters for the past decade, especially since the daughter of the "King and Queen" of the faire began playing Peter Pan alongside Killian Jones, their own Captain Hook. The co-stars had become close friends over the years of the play, but the walls they've erected and the secrets they're keeping will tear them apart if they don't learn to trust.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A Codfish

_Storybrooke Fairy Tale Faire: Summer of 2010_

“Don’t you dare bring that damn cell phone into my camp like you’re some kind of tourist, _Hook_.” Killian groaned as his ‘mortal enemy’ snatched the device out of his hands. 

“You do realize, lass, that it’s not your camp. Just because you’re the daughter of our esteemed King and Queen doesn’t actually mean you have to have a stick up your ass.” Emma snorted as she affixed her green cap to her head with a final bobby pin.

“And just ‘cause you only have one hand doesn’t mean I can’t kick your ass if you screw this up,” 

“You would beat a cripple? I’m hurt, Swan.” 

“That’s Peter to you, Codfish,” she smirked as the curtain went up on their scene. 

“Smee, cut the ropes!” Hook said, grabbing onto the rigging that would take him to the top of the sail for the final battle with Pan, though his opponent would be flying with her ‘happy thoughts,’ they were really both secured by harnesses. 

“I could defeat you with a hand behind my back, villain!” Peter Pan shouted, toning her voice lower than usual, though most of the audience had long ago figured out she was a woman, her slender frame and dazzling contralto meant she had the talent to fool the kids, and that’s what mattered. 

Every step they took on the ‘sail’—which really had a three-foot platform behind it—was calculated and choreographed. Killian parried Emma’s shorter dagger and caught it in his hook, scowling furiously for the sake of the audience.

“You couldn’t beat me, even if you had a sword fit for a man,” he projected, flicking the dagger to the ocean of cloth and paper to the side of the stage. 

“I wouldn’t count on it, pirate!” Emma said as Pan. Hook was momentarily ‘distracted’ by the appearance of the crocodile, operated by none other than Killian’s least favorite technical producer, Mr. Gold. Peter used the distraction to wrap the skull-and-crossbone flag of the Jolly Roger around him, pinning his arms dramatically. 

“I told you I could beat you with one hand,” Pan smirked, having claimed his cutlass, “Are you ready to face your crocodile?” The volume of the clock ticking was increased momentarily by Ruby of the sound crew, as if to mirror his thought process. Taking a dramatic sigh of air, he began pleading with the victor of their duel, as the Lost Boys and Wendy laughed at him in the crow’s nest and his crew balked.

“Please, I’ll do anything!”

“Anything? Say, ‘I’m a codfish.’” Pan smirked.

“I’m a codfish,” Hook said, in the theatre version of ‘under his breath.’

“Louder!”

“I’m a codfish,” he shouted, the anguish of his cry even taking him aback. Emma broke character for a moment, eyeing him with concern, but all attention was on the crow’s nest as even his loyal crew taunted him for being a codfish. 

“Good. Now never, ever come back!” Pan commanded, Emma almost out of breath for no good reason. While Pan’s group rejoiced, Killian escaped from his flag and held up his hook, as if to strike the hero of the tale. The gasp from children in the audience followed by Wendy’s frantic shout of “Peter!” gave his opponent enough time to flip over him as he ‘fell’ into the open jaws of the crocodile with a comedic scream. 

Gold helped him remove his harness once the crocodile rig retreated to behind the blue velour curtain, and Killian gave him a tense “Thanks mate,” before going off to find a water bottle to dump over his head. A leather vest and jacket were not the best attire for summer, even in Maine. But he had to greet the children soon, so he settled for pouring some of the water over his chest and drinking the rest in three big gulps. 

Before he knew it, he was called for bows, and he was on stage again, bowing with a flourish and a wink. While the ending of their play may have been aimed towards the children’s Disney perceptions of the J.M. Barrie story, there were enough innuendos about his hook in their version to keep the adults in stitches half the time. 

“You’ll use any excuse to use that thing won’t you,” Emma murmured to him as he made to hold hands with her in the line of cast members, with his hook. 

“I haven’t got anything else there if you hadn’t noticed, love,” he quipped, making her sparkling eyes sober as she pursed her lips. He gave her an exasperated look. They began doing the Peter Pan show three years ago, when it had become the staple of the Storybrooke Faire and he had lost his hand only last winter. She didn’t usually coddle him about it, as their backstage banter had shown, but sometimes she would look at him with something akin to pity, and it was a worse feeling than when he had lost the damn hand. 

As they exited the stage he felt her squeeze his remaining hand, a silent apology that made him feel worse somehow. He felt the nerves tense up in his arm, as if he was clenching his phantom fist, and once Emma’s hand left his he let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding. 

Killian never felt phantom limb syndrome when he was acting in the faire or teaching in his nine to five job, as a highly overqualified private school teacher. So he went out to the Greet the Cast area to act some; interacting with the kids that came to the show was always the highlight of his day anyways.

Emma entered the area with much less gusto, as always. While Killian had never had kids himself, he had always liked them. For whatever reason, Emma seemed recalcitrant to interact with them, especially the young boys. But it wasn’t Killian’s business; she didn’t know about his hand, he didn’t know what made her so warm with her faire family and so cold to the tourists. Of course, she put on a brave face, but often the kids that came every year went straight to him. 

“Why didn’t you take off your hook this year?” One of the young girls asked. 

“Because I’m supposed to be in costume, little lass,” he let out with a pirate growl that was more bark than bite. The little girl giggled and accepted the answer, tugging on her mother’s hand before leaving. 

Emma had heard the question and turned to him from her bevy of younglings, asking him with her eyes if he was really ready to play the pirate. He turned away from her, instead answering the eager questions of his young audience.

After the children had been lead away by tired parents, a few of his students came up to him, looking different to him without their uniforms as he shook hands with them, sharing brief hugs with the few that he had come close to as advisor and director of their yearly plays. The young ladies of the group inquired after Miss Nolan, and he beckoned the star over. 

“How do you get a big role like this?”

“What do you do when you play a boy?” 

“Do you normally speak that low?”

Emma’s eyes bugged out a little at the exuberance of the teens, and he gave her a sympathetic look.

“Well, my parents have been running the faire for a while, but I think I could have gotten it without the nepotisim,”

She was interrupted by another of them, asking “How long have you been dating Prof Jones?”

“Uh—what?” Emma spluttered, “We’re not dating.” 

Killian raised his eyebrows at his student, curious how they had come to that conclusion.

“Oh, then who was that actress you said you had been dating from this faire…” At his look she trailed off, leaving the subject with a few awkward looks to her classmates. After a few more pleasantries, he and Emma were able to retreat backstage, and Killian had to remind himself not to tell his students anything again _ever._

“So… who did you date from this faire? And why don’t I know about it, for that matter.” 

“It must be the woman from one of the winter faires I do that they’re talking about; not this one,” he shrugged, trying to seem as nonchalant as possible, when, in reality he had been secretly seeing a woman from this faire. Until a tragic ‘accident’ took her life. Right around the time he lost his hand, actually. 

But neither Emma nor her parents could know the circumstances behind the loss of his hand. Not with that damn crocodile lingering.

Emma’s superpower told her otherwise, so she pushed. “Are you sure? Because they seemed pretty confident—” 

“Will you just shut up about it?”

His voice was louder than it ought to have been. Crew from _Peter Pan_ were cleaning up to ready the stage for _Beauty and the Beast_ tomorrow, where Gold would take center stage pretending to be a monster with a pure heart when he was really a man with a rotten one. Eyes wandered their way, but quickly found their way back to their tasks. 

He ground his teeth, willing himself to calm down.

“Does she have something to do with your hand?” Emma asked, softly, as if she could use gentleness to coax it out of him. Her eyes were dark and kind in the dim backstage light, and her hand on his shoulder felt like a brand. 

“It’s none of your business, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t stick your nose in it.”

“Please, Killian…” 

“I’m going to go change. I’ll see you at dinner,” he grit out, turning his back to avoid the weight of her gaze, instead meeting the curious one of Mr. Gold, who was taking down the crocodile with help from his costar, Lacey. Everyone who acted worked backstage on the other plays; it made the faire a real family. But since the affair with Milah started it had made him feel more anxious than comfortable. Even after her death, his stump itched every time his eyes met Gold’s. 

Killian felt like it took forever to get to his tent, every caring friend or curious tourist that stopped him feeling like one more impediment to him shedding the costume of Hook and putting on his damn fake hand and at least being able to pretend to have two hands. He had gotten used to it over the school year, and he found that most of his students didn’t care about his hand any more than they cared about learning about literature from someone with a PhD in the subject. But everyone here, everyone who wasn’t used to his _disability_ had a kind word to say or a gaze that lingered on his hook, knowing that last year he had a hand under the brace and now he was a regular amputee. 

He rubbed his hand over his face and grabbed his flask, downing it as soon as he got inside the relative safety of his tent. Once he got the leather off, he gave up the ghost and decided to just give up altogether on the idea of going to dinner, rummaging until he found the bottle that he normally used to fill the flask, uncorking it and taking a swig.

Hours later, he fell asleep, dead drunk, still wearing the hook.

 

“I’m worried about him,” Emma admitted to her father at the buffet they set up for the faire, since he had already heard the gossip about her and Killian’s fight. No one knew what was said, other than him telling her to shut up, but it was assumed to be about Killian’s hand. 

David took a bite of lasagna, courtesy of Granny, and chewed thoughtfully before answering. “He wouldn’t tell Mary Margaret or me what happened either. He mentioned it on his registration papers and showed up to rehearsals without saying a word about it. When we asked, he said it was an ‘unfortunate coincidence.’”  
Emma snorted, spearing a piece of broccoli angrily, “That sounds just like him. Make jokes when we’re worried sick like he can just take care of himself.”

Her father looked at her with a curious gleam in his eyes, “He can take care of himself,” at Emma’s glare he expanded, “Which is not to say that he should have to deal with it alone, but he is more than capable of dealing with his own emotions.”

“I just wish he wouldn’t push me away.” 

He sighed, “Your mother and I said the same thing about you after you came back from…” David trailed off, looking down at his food, “Look, we know it’s hard to get through to the people we care about after a trauma.” 

She felt a lump in her throat and swallowed past it, pretending it was just broccoli and nodding at her father, eyes watery. 

The various characters of Storybrooke’s Faire began breaking away from dinner, going off to set up fires and busking-style musical performances for the older attendees of the faire. Emma should be joining her group to sing some bawdy tunes with Killian about their characters, but since Killian didn’t show up for dinner, it was unlikely he would come busk with them.

“Maybe you should bring him some food. Peace offering,” David suggested, eyes wide and hopeful.

Emma nodded numbly, and went to beg Granny for Killian’s favorites. 

Mary Margaret came up to David with a plate, having arrived late after doing a last meet and greet with the kids before their parents took them away for bed time. “Is she going to talk to him?” She asked past a hungry mouthful of baked ziti. 

“How do you already know the gossip?”

“A few little birdies. And by birdies I mean literally everyone coming up to me, worried about our main source of revenue.”

“Our most popular show is safe, I think. It’s just a spat. She’s bringing him food.”

“I know that’s how I make it up to you when you get hangry.” David laughed, throwing an arm around her shoulder. 

“Yeah, but we never went through the kind of loss they’ve gone through. It’ll take them awhile to pick up the pieces.” 

She smiled sadly, “Is it bad that I’m glad we didn’t?”

“Of course not, but… the way Killian’s been acting since he lost his hand. I’m just worried that she’ll lose him—that we’ll all lose him if we aren’t careful.”

Emma came back, steaming plate of carbohydrates covered by another. She kissed her mother on the cheek. “Good luck,” Mary Margaret whispered kindly. Rolling her eyes, Emma set off towards the tents, knowing Killian’s by sight, since it was the only one with a pirate flag on it. Archie gave her a thumbs-up from the entrance of his own tent as she approached Killian’s.

 _Can people stop being wrapped up in each other’s business for five seconds_ , She thought to herself, knowing that they cared and still finding herself slightly angered by their nosiness. 

Of course, that’s probably how Killian felt about her poking into his life. But Killian was the closest thing she had to a best friend and she couldn’t just let him push her away. So she took a deep breath and entered the unzipped flap of his tent, only to find him passed out in his boxers with a bottle of rum still clutched in his hand. 

She looked down on him, crouched as she was, and understood. Emma had never taken to drink after being left high and dry by Neal, especially since it was a little difficult to reconcile endangering the life of the child inside you when you’re pregnant. But she understood. The want to make it stop, if only for a little while.

Abandoning the food and deciding that she’d bring him hangover breakfast tomorrow, she began tidying up his tent, hanging his costume, corking the alcohol, and pulling his sleeping bag over his prostrate form. She was about to leave, when she snatched the whiskey in a split-second decision for his well-being. 

_I’ll give it back if he asks for it. But he’ll have to ask me to do that, and to do that he’ll have to talk to me,_ Emma reasoned with herself, knowing that she was really just taking it away because she was angry that he blew her off to get drunk. And because she didn’t like the idea of him drinking when he could just stop being a stubborn ass and talk to her. 

Sighing, she left his tent for her own, about ready to drop from the day’s activity. 

_This is going to be a long faire season. ___


	2. Wake Up, Sleeping Beauty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A mishap forces Emma and Killian to confront each other for the good of the faire.

Killian woke with a start from a far-too-familiar nightmare, trying to grasp at his folding camp table with his stump, forgetting there was no hand there.

_I don't remember taking off the hook._ Nor did he remember hanging up his costume. 

_Emma._

Damn woman didn't know when to stay out of his life. He flushed with embarrassment at the prospect of her having seen him passed out drunk, too pathetic to even take off his hook. Living alone had saved him from that particular embarrassment in the past year. She had taken off the hook too, and seen his stump without his permission. She'd also taken his breakfast. The only way to cure a hangover that he knew of was the hair of the dog, and that's what he was going to imbibe before facing the world.

With a scowl, he pulled on as little of his costume as possible and marched across the camp of tents to Emma's, attaching the hook as he walked.

"Lass, you had better have that bottle and an apology ready," Killian growled as he opened the flap of her tent. She wasn't there.

A tap on the shoulder startled him out of his staring contest with the empty tent.

"Brought you breakfast," She said, almost meekly over a stack of pancakes. He sighed and took the plate, faintly nauseated by the smell.

"A better breakfast would have been that bottle you nicked from my tent, love." Emma pursed her lips in response and ducked into her tent, coming back out with the half-empty bottle of whiskey. He made to grab it from her hand, but she held it close to her body, as if protecting it from him.

"You only get this if you tell me what's going on." 

Killian glared daggers at her. She glared right back, defiant as ever.

"It's really not your business, much as you might think that this bloody faire's some grand family gathering, but nine months out of the year I am not your partner or your friend, and it would do you well to remember that." Emma balked at the cruelty in his words, silently handing over the bottle and going back into her tent, zipping it as violently as possible.

Sighing, he turned away and stalked back to his tent, only to be stopped by Ruby. "Hey, Pirate, where's the rum?"

"Har har," he said mirthlessly. She raised an eyebrow.

"Okay, anyways, you're needed at the Royal Castle, you and your lost girl." Apparently people were under the impression that the dynamic duo had made up, since she expected him to go fetch his co-star.

"Aye aye," he grumbled. And, knowing he didn't want to tick of the bosses, he made his way to the lass's tent and put on his most charming tone of voice in a silent prayer that she'd be kind.

"Your parents have requested our presence and I don't think we want to risk the consequences of not complying just because of our petty squabble." He heard her mumble an agreement, and saw her silhouette rustling through clothes as she pulled on her Peter Pan costume—walking around the faire during operational hours sans-costume was a major faux pas.

Emma finished tucking her hair in her hat, walking out of the tent with lips pressed tight together.

"Swan..." he sighed, not really knowing how to finish the sentence. She remained silent for the walk to the 'Royal Castle,' Mary Margaret and David's small stone house on the property--a field just outside the hamlet of Storybrooke. That and the stage were the only permanent buildings for the faire. Everything else was tents and pavilions, erected for the summer and stored somewhere in town during the winter. Emma was, as always, determined to stay in her own tent, to stave off accusations of favoritism, though everyone knew she was one of the best actresses in the faire, regardless of her parentage. But she was a stubborn lass if there ever was one, and he was no stranger to her obstinate nature. Especially as she made the walk without saying a word to him, though she kindly greeted many of the faire-goers, some of whom almost tried to acknowledge him, but thought better of it when they felt the tension between the two actors.

They passed the stage where _Beauty_ was setting up for their show behind the curtain. Kids were already shifting in their seats in anticipation of the musical group—the Seven Dwarves, who were to go on before the show. Thankfully, Killian and Emma weren't assigned to tech duty on that show, and would be helping with _Sleeping Beauty_ the next day, after spending a day telling stories, busking, and taking pictures with kids who had seen the show the day before, or wanted to meet Hook and Pan.

By the time they reached the Castle, Killian had gotten used to the silence of his companion, patient as ever, and Mary Margaret speaking to them to offer them lemonade--and a hug for her daughter—was almost a shock. David shook his hand before indicating that they were to settle on the couch. Emma was probably unfazed, but, for him, this was where you went if you got caught out of character with banned technology around tourists. Not that the King and Queen ever meted out harsh punishments, but they did not want to ruin the rustic charm of their faire.

"So, let's get down to business," David said, clapping his hands together and looking to Mary Margaret to begin. She sighed, and spoke like she was ripping off a bandaid.

"Phil and his wife are at her mother's funeral and can't make their show tomorrow," She said in a tone agreeing with her abnormally high sense of sympathy. 

"That's unfortunate, but what does it have to do with us?" Emma shrugged, ever the elegant conversationalist. 

"Let me guess, you want us to put on _Peter Pan_ twice this week," Killian surmised, hardly surprised at the profit-minded action out of people who knew full well that their show sold tickets and wares from the merchants near the food tent. 

"Actually... no," David contradicted, hesitating and looking towards his wife before saying, "We want you to take their place for this week's show."

"You mean..." 

"Play Sleeping Beauty and Prince Philip, yes, that's what we want."

Emma's face was tilted back, her eyes open in an almost comical expression of shock, "Why?"

"You've been working tech on the show and know the lines just as well as they do, and lord knows your dynamic sells tickets for whatever reason," Mary Margaret defended, worried that her daughter was about to have some sort of premature heart attack from the blank look on her face.

"You mean our dynamic as very _male_ enemies? That dynamic would be the one you speak of. See, I can sing a fine tenor tune, but I don't know about our leading lady's song bird act."

"You sang soprano for most of your life before..." David broke with a sigh, eyes flicking towards Killian, "While I know your strength is alto, you've always had great whistle tones."

Killian looked towards Swan, whose eyes still bugged out of her head, "I don't even know if I can play a girl anymore. I haven't sung soprano for anyone in..." She paused, "Since..."

"I know. But you can do this," David assured her, before standing up, "Your mother and I have to attend to faire matters. The music and script are by the piano and you guys can practice here today. Once the tourists leave we can do a quick run-through with the director and tech."

Mary Margaret gave her daughter a caring kiss on her forehead, and her father squeezed her hand as they went out the front door.

To break the silence, he quipped: "How am I supposed to play a prince with one hand?" Though he was only partially concerned that anyone in the audience would be able to tell his hand was fake. 

"I think you'll manage," She retorted, managing a smirk.

“Ah, but how will I caress the face of the slumbering princess and deliver True Love’s kiss?” He mocked, laying one hand over his heart, and putting the hook up to his forehead as if he had the vapors. 

“The only thing you’ll be caressing is a sore pair of ‘nads if you think about giving me anything more than a stage kiss, buddy.” 

He bit his lip, not sure if he could actually be that dexterous with the fake hand, “We might actually have to practice that once I get my hand out of my tent, love.” Her eyes flashed with amusement, a glint that quickly faded when she realized that he was serious. 

“Worried you’ll accidentally give me a nosebleed trying to kiss me?”

“The hand’s more for show—and a few other practical things like driving and lifting very light objects.”  
She smiled softly, “We can practice that later. But for now we have a stage-setting duet that we’ve never sang before: to perform for tomorrow.” 

“Good thing we’ve got a strong Maleficent to keep us from singing too often. Getting in the way with thorns and sleeping curses and the like.”

“Yeah, Regina can be a real cock-block sometimes.” 

Killian chuckled deep in his throat, forgetting the sour aftertaste of their unresolved fight, and bowing, “After you milady,” he said, leading her by the small of her back to the piano, before sitting down, hoping he could at least play one hand’s worth of the accompaniment. He stared down at the ivory keys, having ignored his own piano at home since he lost his hand, and half-wondering if he had lost the ability entirely. 

“Killian,” Emma interrupted his unhappy train of thought, shoes kicked off and hair loose, poised halfway between him and the stereo. 

“Hmm?” 

“There’s a CD.” 

“Oh thank god,” He said, letting out a breath he hadn’t known he had been holding.

“Besides. We should probably practice the dancing anyway.” 

“I’ll try not to stab you,” He joked with a relieved laugh, brandishing his hook and laughing tensely. Emma raised her eyebrow, giving a crooked grin before being swept up in the music, dancing with her imaginary owl in a cloak, feet light on the hardwood. 

Killian had actually designed the rig that held the red cloak and owl for the stage, but he wasn’t focused on how long it had taken to figure out how to get the arms to move separately as if two different birds controlled them, instead enraptured by Emma’s voice.

He had been impressed with Emma from the get-go; she certainly complained less about the wires and harnesses their roles required than he did and most certainly filled the role of the leader of the Lost Boys with a gusto he had never seen in the actors he had worked with before. But seeing her playing the young Aurora was heaven to his ears and eyes. When she acted, she gave her all, smiling with the sort of glee he hadn’t seen with her in his three years of friendship except on Pan’s face. 

_If only someone would make the lass smile like that normally, we’d all have enough sunshine to last us a few billion more years on this earth. ___

__When she said her lines, “You know I’m really not supposed to speak to strangers. But we’ve met before, haven’t we?” He could feel the _colla voce_ dripping sweetly from her lips, as she pretended to be a princess, twirling and joking with her imaginary coat and animal friends. _ _

__He felt his cue coming up, and even pretended to pluck away her coat while she wasn’t looking, not thinking how difficult it had been to get the rig to move without catching it in Phil’s arms, but simply ready to _act_. Even in an unfamiliar role, when he and Emma met on stage it was something special, even if the stage was her parent’s music room. They began their dance, her hands pretending to be caught by his, though only one hand was there._ _

__“Oh. Oh!” Emma said, backing away from him._ _

__“I’m awfully sorry; I didn’t mean to frighten you.” Killian felt the need to break character as he tried to grasp her hands as the Prince was supposed to, to find that his hook was still there, keeping him from acting up to potential._ _

__“Oh, it wasn’t that.” The chalkiness Emma’s voice normally exuded was replaced by a sweet, dulcet tone; it would have been seductive if it wasn’t so coy._ _

__“It’s just that you’re a… a”_ _

__“A stranger?”_ _

__She hummed her assent, nodding vigorously as she half-tried to escape and half-came closer._ _

__“But don’t you remember, we’ve met before?”_ _

__“We have?”_ _

__“Well of course, you said so yourself,” he paused, “Once upon a dream,” he said, before she walked away, chin held high in the air. He began his part of the song, trailing her around the room in the Prince’s attempt to woo his lady. Her coy responses were unfamiliar on Emma’s face, the doe-eyed look in her eyes as he courted her with her own words barely recognizable to him._ _

__As he grasped her hand and they finished their dancing, harmonizing again, he began to enjoy the way Emma was looking at him. Of course, it was all for show, but it was the look of someone in love._ _

__It was a good look for her._ _

__She damn near giggled as he turned her one final time, her back pressed against his chest as they stepped out the last few beats, his arms around her stomach and her hands over his one. They each let out a breath as the CD stopped._ _

__“Well, love,” he said as they broke apart, “I don’t know why you’ve been playing boy’s roles when you’ve the sweetest voice I’ve ever heard.” She stared up at him for a moment, walls almost transparent, before looking away and locking herself away with her gaze._ _

__“You were a little flat.”_ _

__“Way to ruin the moment, Swan,” He pouted._ _

__“Why do you call me that?” Emma asked, never having thought of it until he’d had his arms around her._ _

__“What?”_ _

__“Swan,” she repeated._ _

__“Your necklace; besides, you look more like a Swan than a Nolan,” He said, emphasizing the gracelessness of the name Nolan with an exaggerated pronunciation. It was true, she was far too nimble for such a clunky name, not when her hair shone like light on the water and she took to dancing like a swan would to swimming._ _

__“Your name suits you just fine, Jones.”_ _

__“Of course it does. I’m a pirate through and through,” Killian grinned, “Anyways, princess, you should practice your first song.”_ _

__She smirked, “Are you saying that you want to listen to me sing, Killian?”_ _

__He sat down at the piano bench, leaning back against the wall and stretching his legs out languorously, “What would make you think that, lass?”_ _

__“Oh, I don’t know,” She said as she queued the track, “Maybe because I have the sweetest voice that the great Killian Jones has e’er heard?”_ _

__“Yes. You do.” Her eyes met his and her grin softened into a gentle upturn of her lips at the seriousness in his eyes._ _

__He swore she looked down with a blush before beginning her song, but it could have just been a trick of the light._ _


	3. I Wonder

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian and Emma perform Sleeping Beauty, but it's a one-time thing.

Killian and Emma met like normal to go get breakfast together, running lines and bantering out their collective nerves.

Munching on toast, Emma kept picking at the sleeves of her dress, clearly uncomfortable with the change. While he felt more at ease wearing his fake hand than his hook, the velour doublet and suede hose he had donned for the role were hardly what he would call summer-wear. 

As they walked to the stage, he muttered at her: “Stop playing with it. You look fine and princesses shouldn’t fidget.” 

“How do you know what princesses do and don’t do? You’re the one whose still walking like a pirate whose stolen the prince’s clothes,” She said, haughty chin raised and demeanor considerably less boyish. He subconsciously straightened his back, removing his hand from his belt buckle, offering his arm to Emma, in lieu of a response. 

“Shall we, lass?” She bowed her head and laid her hand over his arm, her gently curled hair swinging in the light of the morning sun. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips at her in the princess’ peasant garb, still with little girls ooing and ahing at her beauty. Normally she was the object of the young boys who attended the faire; it was good to see her as a role model for the girls. Every time one of them came up to her to say “you’re pretty,” her smile was dazzling, and, for once, it wasn’t just acting.

They had a few hours before their show started, and, of course, had to apply makeup and do vocal warm-ups before meeting again to run lines. They hurried, but were precise, desperately trying to not fuck up the show, especially as Regina was doing her warm-ups right next to them, eyeing them sideways. Killian’s hand was shaking as they did a quiet practice of their dance steps, and he began to hear the audience fill with excited children and parents, all come to see a practiced performance of _Sleeping Beauty_ , not knowing that a pirate and a lost boy were taking the place of their iconic prince and princess.

“Killian,” Emma said softly, breaking his reverie, “You’re squeezing me… a little tightly.” 

He hadn’t realized that his hand had a vice grip on hers. Making light of it, he chuckled and stepped away, patting her hand and trying not to linger on the light touch.

“Do we need to practice anything else?”

“Uh…” He realized there was something they had forgotten, “How about that stage kiss, love?” 

“Oh shit. I forgot. We didn’t get to that part yesterday and you…” She gestured futilely at his fake hand.

“Well, I guess we’ll be winging it,” he sighed as the call for the first scene went out from the stage manager.

“I… I’m sorry I forgot, just, uh, do your best,” Emma comforted with an ironic half-smile. He let out a breathy almost-laugh.

_Yeah, I’ll just do my best. And try not to get myself a knee in the crotch._

“It’s not the kissing I have a problem with, lass,” He quipped with an exaggerated eyebrow wiggle, confidence only barely regained, “Sure you don’t want a good luck kiss before you go on?”

“Oh, I’m sure,” she joked back, their dynamic falling back into place and the pit in his stomach lifting, filling him with conviction. This was going to be good show. The two of them were a force to be reckoned with, no matter how little practice or sleep either of them had gotten in the past day.

Killian heard Briar Rose beginning her morning song, accompanied by birdsong and the mutterings of the three good fairies. He wandered to the wings, watching her from behind the curtain legs as the fairies shoved her out the door. Emma’s rich voice was enthralling the audience, and he couldn’t wait to see how they reacted to the two of them on stage together, or to the fact that he was actually riding a horse over the stage and through the aisles.

Truth to be told, it was nice that the local stables had loaned them the horse, given its important characterization in the movie, but Killian had only had a few hours with the mare, not the weeks of bonding Phil had. Still, as he galloped out, talking to his horse and asking about that unusual singing, the mare performed their stunts perfectly with little prodding, and he was able to hilariously drench himself in a pond of shredded paper and put his cloak on the hanger rig he had set up last month.

_Damn thing had better work._

From here on, he and Emma shared the stage. She was radiant in her youthful banter with her wire-rigged animal friends, and he appeared to be enraptured, rightfully so. 

However, time passed quickly on stage, and before he knew it he was fighting Regina and stabbing a paper mâché dragon with the sword of truth. And then the scene was changing back to King Stephan’s Castle and he was tumbling towards center stage, still having no game plan on how to bestow True Love’s kiss. 

Running to the plinth upon which Sleeping Beauty lay, his heart was in his chest and his desperation was probably seen as great acting. Emma’s eyes were closed, body still and motionless. The audience was holding their breath; silent as the night.

Her eyelashes were barely twitching, reacting to the heat of his breath brushing over the contours of her face; the rest of her remained in repose. _It’s now or never,_ he thought, taking a deep breath and placing his lips just a hairsbreadth from hers, hoping it was close enough that the audience wouldn’t see, but far enough to—

She drew him to her by opening her mouth just enough for their lips to brush, and he unintentionally leaned into it, almost pulling her bottom lip into his mouth before remembering himself and parting from her. As she sat up, a smile lit up his face and he pulled his hand through the silken strands of her hair. He felt a quip rising to his lips and bit it down, silently pulling her to her feet as they turned to King Stephen and the court, unfrozen from the fairies’ spell and ready to celebrate the joining of two kingdoms. 

Then they were finally doing bows, Emma’s hand gripping his tightly as they took their partnered bow. 

“I don’t think I’ve ever sat on stage doing nothing for that long,” she kidded, hand leaving his bereft as she moved her hair behind her shoulder, fanning herself slightly.

“Did I make you all hot and bothered, Swan?” He asked with an eyebrow arched, still buzzing from the endorphins racing through his body. 

Emma rolled her eyes, “What, when you canonically tried to molest a sleeping 16-year old?”

“While the premise is fairly creepy… I meant when you tried to kiss me back, love,” he said, swinging his arm and leaning on the wall in front of her, mouth quirked in a crooked grin. 

“I just didn’t want the audience to think you were a wimp who couldn’t seal the deal.”

“You keep telling yourself that, lass,” he chuckled, “Maybe one day you’ll believe it.”

At his sobered tone, Emma looked back up at him, eyes searching his. 

He turned away, “Let’s go greet the kiddies, shall we?” He held out his arm. She did a double-take before faking a smile and taking his arm.

“Of course.” There was an odd note in her voice. 

 

The usual group of kids immediately rushed up to them, but the girls usually reserved for Wendy—or even Hook—were there for Emma, faces bright with admiration. It was interesting how swiftly the demographic changed when the play was no longer male-centered. There were more mothers and daughters, fewer eager boys. Though a few boys did come up and say how cool it was that he stabbed a dragon, only the few brave ones ventured to tell the princess that she was pretty. And of course, being in character, he had to defend her honor and challenge the boys with their wooden swords to a duel, letting them win quickly so as not to incur the wrath of their parents. 

One such young lad who complimented Killian on his swordsmanship, and Emma on her singing, with green eyes and a messy mop of brown hair, turned Emma’s eyes wistful with an emotion Killian couldn’t define. But he wasn’t about to comment on it.

David and Mary Margaret finally came up to them as the tired actors were about to head backstage to grab their things before getting dinner. They embraced their daughter tightly.

“Uh, guys. You’re choking me,” David released the hug and backed away, offering his hand to Killian, who shook it firmly. Mary Margaret lingered an instant longer and then, much to his surprise, hugged Killian; it didn’t last nearly as long as her embrace with her daughter, but the effect of it was almost more pronounced.

“You guys did great! I’m sure Phil and Aur would be really happy that you guys did so well in their stead.”

“You sang beautifully,” her father complimented her, “And you weren’t so bad yourself, Killian,” He said with a charming grin that let the actor know it was an understatement. Though he didn’t know David well, their less-innuendo-filled banter also made his days at the faire worthwhile. 

“We were thinking about doing Rapunzel next year, Emma, what do you think, huh? Get you a crazy wig like you had when you were little,” Mary Margaret went on excitedly, as Emma’s expression became more fearful. 

When Mary Margaret finally saw the hesitance in Emma’s eyes and realized her daughter wasn’t as receptive to the idea, there was no recovery time for her. Her daughter was already more than ready with a reason she couldn’t do it, smile fading like the sun reaching its nadir. 

“This was just a one-time thing, I can’t…” she sighed, her eyes wandering over to the little boy with the green eyes, “You know I can’t.”

Killian’s mind screamed _Why not? You’re a better singer than half the actors here!_ But he kept his mouth shut, knowing that pressuring Emma was more likely to make her blow up than make her receptive to the idea. It wasn’t his fight or his decision to make.

“What do you think, Killian? Would you be willing to play the prince again?” Mary Margaret pressed on, clearly determined to have her way somewhere. He heard Emma breathing out heavily through her nose, her lips pressed tightly together, and knew, much as it killed him, that he was going to remain a pirate.

“I think that I’m not going to be a worthwhile prince without your daughter beside me; I’ll play any part so long as we’re sharing the stage.” 

The lass’s father was giving him an odd look, as if he were analyzing Killian, and the mother simply nodded, disappointment evident in her deportment. After some idle chitchat, they were left to their own devices.

“Why did you turn down the offer to be a prince? There’s no way you didn’t love singing as much as you got to today.”

“Same thing as I told your parents, love. I’m no prince without you to tame my scoundrel ways,” he said in an appropriately love-struck tone, mockingly placing his hand over his heart.  
She punched him in the shoulder.

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Oh, I get all tingly when you treat me rough like that, Swan.” She scoffed and hit him again with the flat of her palm, “Harder. Just like that love,” he whispered, letting out a breathy moan in her ear.

“You’re a pig.”

“And you like it that way, Swan.” 

Their banter continued all the way to the food tents, balance restored to their unconventional friendship. But every messy tangle of brown hair hovering at waist level drew Emma’s eye, and Killian could only pretend not to notice for so long.

“Lass,” He said as they sat down with their food, “I don’t mean to pry—and feel free to slap me in the face or just tell me and I’ll never speak of it again—but did something happen that made you stop singing soprano? I feel you and your mother and even your father walking on eggshells and I’d like to know why… if you’d like to tell me, that is.” 

She put her fork down slowly, turning the top half of her body to face him, something different lurking behind her sea green eyes. “So, let me get this straight. You have a secret and it’s all ‘we’re not friends nine months of the year’ and when I have a secret that I clearly don’t want to tell you, it’s relevant information to you?”

“Considering as I’m not getting the primary lead role because of it, I’d say it’s fairly relevant,” he ground out, ire awakened by her sarcastic tone and air quotes. 

“You can be a fucking prince if you want, there are plenty of female leads who would happily let you save them from a damn tower. But I don’t need saving and you don’t need me to be a prince.”

“No, I don’t need you. But I want you on stage with me. We’re something special when we’re up there,” He gestured at the imposing height of the stage a hundred meters away, “Whether we’re enemies or lovers. And I need you as a friend.”

“A three month friend?” 

He clenched his jaw, regretting what he had said the morning before, but not willing to refute it. She lived in Boston, he lived in New York; only in the ephemeral and too-too short summer did they really stay close. They would facebook or send each other funny cat videos, but that was hardly friendship. 

Still, he couldn’t tell her. Maybe she had just as good a reason for keeping her secret. Maybe she could have her wire cut or her harness tampered with by someone who made her balls drop so she couldn’t sing soprano. Maybe her life was in danger too.

But, as her eyes wandered over to the same child who had complimented her singing, walking towards the faire gate, he thought that it wasn’t likely.

“I don’t know what you’re hiding Swan, but I know what you’re giving up. Tell me, is it worth it?” Emma looked down at the table, jaw clenching visibly. 

“You should stick to one-hand roles, Killian,” She let out with venom, leaving her food and hiking up her skirts as she walked towards the actors’ tents. At this point he was numb, head held in singular hand and mind reeling.

 _What can be so bad that she’d say_ that _?_ While Emma was a hardened person, clearly having experienced some hardship that made her attitude quite different from her parents’, she was never a cruel person. She’d never stoop so low unless something truly dire had happened to her. The lass was her mother’s daughter. 

Or maybe he just brought that out in her. The past few days had showed that she brought it out in him. The thought was hardly comforting, however. 

Sighing, he stabbed a bit of his food, thinking about eating without her, and instead grabbed both their plates. They couldn’t just cool off or let it go because it seemed that every time they did that, the problem got bigger and bigger. Maybe they would never know each other’s deepest secrets, but that shouldn’t divide their friendship. 

He reached her tent just as she did, though she was holding what looked like his bottle of whiskey.

“If you needed a drink you could have just asked me,” he said quietly, unable to make the smile in his voice extend to his eyes. She looked guiltily back at him.

“I figured you would come looking for me if I stole your bottle and you could get me drunk enough so that I’d apologize.”

“Can’t argue with logic, love, but perhaps you shouldn’t drink on an empty stomach,” he extended her plate and she took it with hesitating fingers, which just brushed over the leather covering his prosthetic. Emma looked down at the plate with resignation, eyes flicking between his face and the glove. 

“Come in and share a drink with me?” She asked, head ducked, and voice flavored with apology. Once she looked up at him through her lashes like a scolded child he knew he couldn’t resist. While she had the last, awful, words in their argument, he had pried, and an apology was due.

After they had finished their lukewarm food in silence, he grabbed the bottle and took a swig, “I’m sorry I pried.” Another swig. “I’m sorry I’m a bloody hypocrite.” 

He offered her the bottle, and she took to it like a drowning man.

“I’m sorry I said that horrible thing.” Drink. “And I’m sorry that you can’t tell me what happened.” Gulp. “And I’m sorry that I can’t tell you.” A gulp that was more like she was trying to breathe the whiskey than drink it, “And I’m sorry that we’re not friends every month of the year.”

“You’re more than sorry enough lass. Let me have a turn.” She turned to him with red-rimmed eyes and nodded, giving him the bottle. He glared at what was left, the amber liquid sloshing in the bottle, taunting him. 

“I’m sorry that we don’t live in the same city. I’m… sorry that we can’t just live in Ontario and do Shakespeare together for a living.” She laughed and he nearly choked on his drink.

“What?” Emma snatched the bottle from him, still laughing in the back of her throat. 

“I am not doing Shakespeare with you.” 

“Why? You’d make a gorgeous Portia,” He posited, imagining her draped in gold and speaking of mercy. 

“Which one?”

“ _Merchant_ , of course.”

“What, and you’ll be my Brabantio?”

“That’s Desdemona’s father in _Othello_ , love. And I think you’ve had enough,” he said, pulling away the bottle and taking a sip. He was only buzzed, having made a habit of excessive alcohol use. While Swan could certainly hold her liquor, she was far from a regular drinker, and her cheeks were more than a little flushed.

“Fine, if you’re not a Shakespeare woman, then I’m sorry that we’re not touring for some on-Broadway production of _Sleeping Beauty_ ,” he made himself more comfortable, lying down and propping himself on his elbow.

“More like shoot me in the face,” She snatched the bottle back, “I’d much rather be a lost boy.”

“That’s why you should play Portia; she gets to cross-dress.”

“But then I don’t get to sing,” Emma pouted, putting down the bottle and lying down next to him.

“Can I tell you a secret?” Her voice carried to him in a whisper and her eyes shined in the dimming light of the tent. Killian took a gulp of whiskey, feeling guilty that he wasn’t as vulnerable as she was in her alcohol-addled state.

“I’m all ears, love, but maybe you shouldn’t tell me if it isn’t something you’d tell me sober.”

“Oh, it’s nothing like that,” she brushed it off, beginning to fiddle with the buttons on his costume as she leaned in, murmuring in his ear, “I really liked dancing with you.” 

His face split in a smile at her almost saccharine sweetness, “Even with this old thing?” He asked, waving his prosthetic as best he could, though he would have wiggled his fingers had he control over the false hand. 

“It’s not as bad as—hic—you make it out to be,” she said distractedly as she pulled her blanket from the corner, draping it over their shoulders.

“Is that so?” Killian finished the bottle, placing it in the corner farthest away from Emma, his fingers tingling; he felt warm all over, though the heat from her body being merely inches from his was probably part of the cause. 

She nodded, bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

“Then can I tell you a secret, lass?” Emma nearly sidled up to him, humming her assent. 

_I really hope I don’t get a knee to the balls for this._

“I really liked kissing you.” 

“Isn’t that what I said?” She asked, expression confounded.

He paused, equally confused, “Uh… no, lass, you didn’t.”

Her lips formed an ‘O’ and a little sound came out, “Well, that’s what I meant,” she admonished, her voice coming out chalky and somewhat sugary at the same time. His eyes unconsciously flicked down to her lips, and when he looked at her eyes, they were focused on his, lashes dark feather marks over her nearly lidded eyes. 

Killian went to cup her chin, but found his false hand there instead, cold and fake against her rosy cheeks and sparkling eyes. He closed his eyes and bit back a curse, sitting up with a jolt.

Her body responded slowly, rousing with eyebrows furrowed, “What’s wrong?”

“I… I can’t. Lass. You’re drunk and I...” He knew it was bullshit, but her bullshit detector didn’t work when she was in her cups. _Thank god._

“I’ll see you tomorrow, Swan.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead, closing his eyes forcefully on the pain stinging behind them before sweeping out of her tent, kicking himself the whole way back to his tent.

 _I’ll never be normal again. I can’t let myself forget that._ And when his eyes lighted on Gold, who was chatting idly with Lacey, not a care in the world, his convictions solidified.

_I can’t be normal until the bastard’s gone._


	4. Mia Bella

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian and Emma finally manage to busk, succeed at ignoring their drunken activities, and Killian learns something about Emma through sheer annoyance.

Killian woke up and realized that he was probably going to have to busk despite his faint headache, having no show to perform in or help with today. Today’s performance was _Snow White and the Seven Dwarves_ ; even though Killian half-thought her parent’s would feign food poisoning just to get Emma to sing soprano, they were indeed performing. 

_So I can’t just get drunk in my tent again._ But at least he could pretend nothing had happened the night before. He mostly hoped that Emma didn’t remember—or that she would pretend she didn’t for the sake of their friendship. Of course, when he went to breakfast, the stubborn lass wasn’t there yet, probably still nursing an aching head as he was his wounded pride.

While half of him reared against the concept of spending the day as a fairy tale villain when there was real villain lurking just a few tents away, he knew the best way to get his revenge was to act as normally as possible. That meant bringing his costar breakfast and singing to tourists for change. At least the faire didn’t take a tithe from buskers as some others did—and thank god he rented out his apartment over the summer; paying a New York rent on tips was not a good idea. Luckily, they were paid for their acting and time in tent space and free food. It hardly made it pleasant when on one of the rainy summer weeks of Maine, but the bed and breakfast in town and the couches of friends were always there when the thunder rolled in. 

However, his financials were hardly important when his hand was gone and he hadn’t done a thing about it yet. It hadn’t been feasible to have his revenge when he was three hundred miles away from his target and still weak from his Christmas surprise of a dead lover and a bleeding stump. He had been too busy acclimating and quarrelling with Emma the first three days of opening week to really stop and think about what was important to him and his life. 

And making Gold pay, he found, was the only goal he really had left in life.

Still, he brought Emma scrambled eggs and orange juice with a half-smile and sympathy in his eyes. She didn’t say anything other than their usual banter as they roamed the faire to find their normal spot. Killian usually played the lute or whatever instrument was available. This time, wearing her Peter Pan garb, Emma took her flute and her piccolo with her. They were both metal, but instruments of the modern kind were far from banned from faire grounds. True authenticity was in the eye of the beholder, and the tourists never noticed the glint of metal through the pleasure of the music.

“But we won’t be able to hear your lovely voice,” he mock pouted as she pulled out the flute. She rolled her eyes.

“Unless you want me to find a whole piano just to busk, this or my oboe are your only options, buddy.” She didn’t mention that she had played the violin as long as she had the flute. 

Killian frowned, “Perhaps we should add a third to our little group this summer. Or I should teach you the lute.”

Emma shrugged and began putting her flute together, “If you think I can learn it over the weekend, why not?” She always took quickly to instruments. As a singer she had to play piano to warm herself up, but she had been a band geek long before discovering her voice, “Did you bring it?” 

He nodded absently as Gold walked past, but Emma’s head was down.

“Hey, Killian, did you hear me?”

“Yes, love. I brought the damn thing. Never know when someone’s going to break a string and happen to need to play _tout de suite_ , you know.” Much as he loved his lute, he had packed it with a great deal of bitterness, angry that he was only packing it for borrowing, and would likely never play it again himself. At least if Emma learned to play, it would go to a good home. 

“So, we gonna go Greensleeves or a little more Disney?”

“Let’s go a wee bit more classic, shall we?” 

Of course, she strikes up ‘Amarilli mia bella,’ eyes crinkling from behind him in the imitation of a smirk. 

“I said classic, not classical, Swan,” he gritted out through his teeth as a small crowd began to gather, “Damn Caccini.” At least she played it in the low voice key, so that he didn’t have to strain for notes above his range. No matter how smug her face was now, he knew that when he started singing she would regret her choice.

Everyone who had to sing Amarilli for voice instructors and the like were told to sing it _to_ someone to make it more powerful. The technique always worked for him, and he had a perfect subject for his ‘amore’; Emma had chosen the wrong song if she was trying to mess with him.

Giving the audience his most pained in-unrequited-love look, he began taking slow steps towards the flautist, stopping just a few feet shy of her as he began to serenade her. She gave him an alarmed look, cheeks flushing from the exertion of playing—and probably a tidy portion of embarrassment. 

“Non credio del mio cor,” he sang, almost surprised that he still knew the song. It had been at least three years since he had performed it, probably two since he had picked up his book of Italian arias. Sometimes he was glad music came to him almost as easily as breathing, though he’d never match Emma’s poise as a musician. 

“Amarilli, amarilli, amarilli,” he crescendoed, wrapping his arms around Emma’s waist as she forced her muscles not to squirm, “è il mio amore.” He planted a wet kiss on her cheek as she finished her last flourish, beaming at their little audience, which had grown almost exponentially since he had last paid it heed. Of course, she immediately wiped her cheek, sticking her tongue out. 

So Killian tickled her, only barely remembering that he was only tickling her with one hand through the halcyon haze of performance. She elbowed him, face split in a grin. There were raucous cheers abound and he noticed Emma’s costumed parents in the audience, David glaring at him and Mary Margaret laughing at her husband’s protective stance. 

_Remind me never to tell him of getting their daughter drunk and almost taking advantage of her,_ he thought to himself.

The Nolans quickly left, probably late to prepare for their show. Killian then began to notice other members of the faire shows abound, from Hopper and Ruby grinning by the side to Gold’s narrowed eyes in the back of the crowd. 

His blood ran a little cold, and he separated from Emma, who was already gently pushing him off anyways, prepared to take their bow. He took his and then gestured to Emma, who took hers to loud applause and many dollars and coins flying into her flute case. 

“Mommy, it’s Sleeping Beauty pretending to be Peter Pan!” A small child squealed excitedly. 

“Yes honey, and Prince Philip pretending to be a Pirate.” He heard the mother respond. 

Of course, that led to the crowd of people asking them to sing their duet from the show. The real actors weren’t showing up from the funeral until tomorrow, but he felt bad about taking their spotlight regardless. They also didn’t have a non-wind instrument. He was about to beg off with a great apology and a pirate shanty, but Ruby stepped in, grabbing Emma’s flute and cutting off his protests.

Then Archie, of course, had his guitar with him. So they did the song, Emma quietly muttering in his ear, “If anyone calls me a princess again, I swear I will start carrying my gun to the faire,” He tried not to snort.

“Alright, princess.”

Sometimes he forgot that she had such a violent job. Most of the people she chased weren’t that dangerous, but the fact that she had to carry a gun and he hadn’t shot one since before his father died—and even that was for sport—it worried him. Then again, he was the one whose nefarious activity had led to loss of limb.

He thought that their new accompanists would have left after the first song, but they volunteered to stay, saying that they didn’t have partners to busk with, even though their shows were on different days. 

So their ragtag group sang a few ditties, Killian always forced to sing due to his lack of instrument. Around eleven, they stopped, knowing that everyone would be making their way to the stage for _Snow White_ and that busking without getting food or drink for much longer would be dangerous in the heat.

“So, lunch?” Emma suggested, waving her wad of bills and coins. She didn’t like being cooped up at the faire for so long, enjoying lunches out or with her parents when the constant bubble of energy got too claustrophobic for her

As a man who had been ordering in since losing his hand, he wasn’t completely averse to the proposition. “What would we do, drive towards civilization until we find someplace to stop?” 

“It’s only half an hour to Olive Garden,” She shrugged, knowing the area much better than him.

“Such expensive tastes, lass. Are you sure we’ll be able to afford that, what with our poor busking today?” The sarcasm dripped from his voice and she gave as good as she got.

“I don’t know, I’m the one who got us the fives and tens that went in the basket right away, choosing that song,” she smirked, fanning out the money and waving it dramatically while fluttering her eyelashes. 

“Speaking of which, when did you learn to play that on flute? That would be quite the transcribing job to take on, especially if you did a number of those arias, which I can guess you did.”

“I didn’t always have a piano available,” she shrugged, clearly uncomfortably at the question, “I had to record myself playing it for the tempo of accompaniment I wanted.” 

Something about that rang false to Killian, like a half-truth. But he ignored it for the moment as they went to their tents to change. 

“I’ll meet you at the carpark,” he said, knowing she would want to drive that old yellow bug. Personally, he hadn’t had a car since his youth, and that had been across the pond. Living in New York had made him a big fan of public transport. Funny enough, he had been thinking about getting his American license and a used car before he had lost his hand, in the hope that his job applications to universities outside New York would work out. And that Milah would come with him.

Of course, he hadn’t finished the applications before his optimism was crushed thoroughly. 

Putting on street clothes and his prosthetic, he made his way to the car, only to find Emma steps behind him. “Ready, love?”

“Yep,” she said, adjusting her tunic over her leggings before putting her hair into a pony tail. He settled into the passenger seat as he had done a few times over the past few years, surprised that all Emma’s things weren’t stuffed in back. Her lease always ran from August to June and she’d clear her stuff out of the apartment and make her way up to Maine, leaving all her possessions in her car or a storage unit.

“My parents finally convinced me that it was prudent to leave my stuff in their house.” He snorted, wondering how much convincing that had taken on the part of David and Mary Margaret.

“Don’t sass me, Jones,” she said pointedly as she trundled out of the field that served for a parking lot, “Get my sunglasses from the glove box, would you?” 

He obliged, fumbling in the dark space with his good hand, before feeling something heavy, hot and oily metal meeting his fingers. A light bulb went off in his head, but he suppressed his gasp, “You keep your piece in the car, Swan?” He said with a lighter tone than he felt, finally grabbing the sunglasses and handing them to her. 

She put them on one-handed, eyebrows lifting back to normal as she stopped having to squint in the sunlight. “You think I want it in my parent’s house so that they can find it and worry that what I do is dangerous? And I can’t keep it in my tent with all the little kids running around the faire. At least it’s somewhat secure in here.” 

“I promise I won’t tell anyone,” He mocked, putting his hand and prosthesis up. 

“Good. If you did I’d have to kill you.” Her cadence was bright, free of the heaviness the words placed in the pit of his stomach. Killian remembered hearing the same words from his dead lover’s husband the first time they had a moment alone at the faire, no more than a week ago. 

Unbeknownst to Killian, Emma was looking searchingly at him out of the corner of her eye, worry setting her mouth in a firm line. As much as she didn’t want to push him again, she wanted to know what happened. Regardless, she endeavored to keep their topics of conversation away from violence, considering as he had been either the victim of either a violent crime or a horrid accident.

“What’s the show schedule next week?” She asked, shifting the subject to something that they could chat idly about without distracting her from driving.

The main show schedule never varied, Mondays through Thursdays hosting the higher production value shows, while Friday, Saturday, and Sunday hosted their shorter, low cost shows such as _Little Red Riding Hood_ , _Pinocchio_ , _Robin Hood_ , and _Cinderella_ , the last of which everyone fully expected would soon become one of the main shows if the Nolans could just lock down actors to do it every year rather than on and off. 

Family was a big part of the shows, and the King and Queen wanted everyone in the main shows to be like family. That didn’t mean that everyone liked each other, but it did mean sticking through, no matter what. Emma was honestly surprised when she had Skyped with her parents a month before rehearsals started and they said that _Beauty and the Beast_ was still going to be a main production. It made sense, since they had all the materials and effects set up, but since their previous Belle was, well, dead, it hadn’t seemed feasible. But the new girl in town stepped in, and Gold said that he was honoring his wife’s memory by continuing with the show that they had starred in together for eight years. 

That was also when they informed her that Killian’s papers had come in, and that he had lost his hand due to unknown circumstances. After quickly ending the conversation, she called and texted and even facebook messaged her costar, worried sick and barely able to breathe. When he finally texted her back a week later, as she sat in her car outside the apartment of a bail jumper, his cryptic “I’m fine and I’ll be fine to play pirate with you come June,” did little to assuage her worry. 

“I’m glad Ruby and Hopper are in different plays so that we have at least one person to busk with us, but we really should get you learning that lute.”

She hummed noncommittally, “If I can play the violin I can probably manage a lute; the problem is memorizing enough songs for a decent hour or two of busking.” His face showed surprise at her knowing the violin, but her mind was elsewhere. 

“I’m sure we can find you a rustic enough music stand and I can be your charming page turner,” he grinned as she pulled into a spot at the restaurant. Emma chuckled as she shut her door. 

“At least you can’t serenade me if you’re right next to me,” she said, lifting her eyebrows in a symmetrical approximation of Killian’s usual arch. Which of course he gave her right back. 

“I’ll be sure to try my damnedest if you play another aria.” 

“I didn’t expect you to actually sing it!” the flautist protested, having not even known that he knew Caccini. She did know that he had a doctorate in Literature from some fancy school in the U.K., but just because he liked theatre didn’t make him classically trained.

“And I didn’t think you knew music as well by instrument as you do by voice,” He said softly as they entered the fairly empty and far too dimly-lit restaurant. 

“I’ve been playing flute since I was eight, picking up instruments here and there, AND my parents and almost everyone in town acted as voice teachers,” she emphasized, clearing her throat as the waiter arrived and took their orders.

Killian ordered some sort of light pasta, which he could easily eat with his one hand and a fork. Emma ordered a panini and a salad. She was never the sort of person to watch her weight, but being slim enough to be a boy required a little sacrifice. 

As soon as their drinks arrived, he resumed his line of questioning, “But you forget that I know these people too, and few enough of them have gone to college, almost none of them to a school with any sort of arts background. They can all read music well enough and play, but I’m not even sure your parents’ tastes run to the arias. At least I have the excuse of being a choir boy and a spoilt brat with piano and voice instructors up to my ears. Your parents started the faire when you were about eighteen, so clearly you left home and they began empty-nesting, but where did you go?”

“Haven’t we gone over this? I don’t tell you my secrets, you don’t tell me yours, and we don’t fight anymore.” 

“There’s a bumper sticker scratched off on your car.”

“So?”

“So, I think you went to university. Somewhere with a school of music and generous donation funds.”

Her salad arrived with the breadsticks. She stabbed at the romaine and chewed to avoid the question. He tore a breadstick and raised his eyebrow.

Emma put down her fork, a little nauseous. 

“University of Portland. School of Music.”

He smiled, genuinely, “That wasn’t so hard, was it?”

“I got kicked out.” She admitted, watching his smile turn into a frowning gulp as a bit of bread with a hearty slathering of guilt made its way down his throat. 

“Shit,” he said, at a loss for words.

“This is why we aren’t doing the whole sharing and caring thing, Killian,” Emma sighed, eating her salad silently as Killian sat still, eyes lowered to the table. He was probably trying to figure out how she had gotten kicked out. Honestly, for the past ten years, she had too. Yes, Emma knew that Neal was the one who cheated off her essay, whose father’s connections had left her with the blame and a positive pregnancy test. But it was still in a fog of pain for her. She could have returned to Storybrooke, had her parents’ help her raise the baby, but she figured her son was better off in someone else’s hands. Eighteen and single, she was in no state to have a child.

Even after the closed adoption, she stayed in Oregon, stealing to stay afloat. When she was finally caught, a kind, elderly police officer saw something that wasn’t all rotten in her. He and his wife took care of her for a month while she learned how to use a weapon, how to defend herself. Emma already knew how to survive like a criminal and where to go when on the run. So she started taking bounty hunting jobs, finding that she could easily track the movements of bail jumpers. One such case took her to Boston, where she befriended some of the local bail bondsmen and ended up staying. A year later, a sweltering summer case took her to Storybrooke, where she found her fugitive in her hometown’s bed and breakfast. 

She kept the bail jumper locked in the sheriff’s station, with Graham on the watch as she caught up with her bewildered parents. Eventually she had to return to Boston to return the fugitive, but she promised them she’d come back to see the faire in a week. 

When she did, and saw her parents and the citizens of Storybrooke performing in what had been a small operation at the time—they didn’t even have a stage yet—she realized she didn’t have to have her degree to still perform. 

It took her another two years to open up to her mother and father about the adoption and what Neal did to her, and years after that to take on a major role in the faire. 

And by then she had met Killian, and was a whole woman again, confident despite her loneliness. But since Killian lost his hand, and she first saw the anguish in his eyes when he thought about it, she could no longer fool herself that she was okay with what had happened to her a decade before. 

They ate their meal in silence; as she watched him tuck his false hand under the table unobtrusively, Emma realized that she and Killian would forever be scarred by their pasts.


	5. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma and Killian both consider how to find their closure. A rainstorm hits the faire.

“Remind me why I keep fucking this up, love?” Killian joked after they paid for their meal. She sighed at the humorous please-forgive-me note in his voice, getting up and walking to the car. 

“Forgive me lass, I didn’t know…”

“Yeah. That’s right. You didn’t know. And I still know nothing about what happened to your goddamned hand and you know that I…” Emma took a breath, angrily getting into the car and slamming the door behind her. 

He cautiously got in, treading as he would around a wounded animal, as if she would lash out at any moment. 

With a deep breath, she asked, “Just tell me this one thing,” her eyes were directed heavenward, closed in exasperation as if she were receiving some grace from up high, “Did someone do this to you,” she gestured at his hand, “Or was it an accident?”

Killian remained silent, she continued, “I won’t pry anymore if you don’t. Just… for my ease of mind, please.”

“It won’t ease your mind, Emma,” he ground out, “The man who did it is still out there.”

She nodded solemnly, putting her hand over his and boring into his eyes with hers. “You know; if you have any idea who it is… I would find him for you and bring him to justice. All you have to do is ask.”

Even half an hour away from the faire, he was wary of Gold’s reach. He nodded, as if beyond words, when he knew who it was and knew Emma would stop at nothing if she knew the crimes he had really committed. 

But justice wasn’t for men like Gold, whose pockets were lined with favors and whose reach was unending. Hell, Emma and her parents probably owed him more than one favor. As much as he wished he could just tell Emma, Killian knew that the moment Gold was in a cell he would be out again, gunning for the both of them.

Just as he was thinking of her gun in the glove compartment and his revenge, she was thinking about a different kind of closure. She had a closed adoption, but she knew one man who could at least find out where her son was. Emma wouldn’t barge into his life; she gave up that right long ago. But she had to know that he was okay. 

 

When they got back to the faire, her parents were just getting off stage, holding hands and greeting excited children. She and Killian met up with Ruby and Archie, who were getting ready to busk. they joined their friends for busking until dinnertime, banter strained and tense. They parted after dinner, where her parents were absent, and Emma made her way to her parents’ house, hoping they would provide her guidance.

“Mom? Dad?”

“Just a minute honey!” Mary Margaret said, coming down from the upstairs with her wig in hand and make-up wiped off. David was at the kitchen counter, stirring iced tea in a pitcher. 

“Do you want something to drink?” She nodded, tight-lipped and almost nervous.

“Are you alright? Did you and Killian make up?”

Emma laughed to herself. Her parents knew how close she and Killian were, but always managed to make them sound like a constantly-fighting couple rather than good friends.

“Ish. I told him about Portland. Well, about being kicked out of music school. He told me something about his hand… and it all just got me thinking.”

“Thinking what?” David asked with concern, handing her a glass of iced tea.

“I want to know what happened to my son. He’s probably with some nice Oregon family, but I just… need to know. I think it would help me move on,” she said, looking up at them and hoping they would say something helpful.

“I think that it would help, honey,” Mary Margaret said, grasping Emma’s hand with a watery smile.

“Do you think you’d be able to stay out of his life if you knew? I know you’re strong, but if I knew you were out there somewhere, I don’t think I could have that sort of strength.” David’s honesty was what she needed. He always knew how to get to the heart of what she was really asking advice about.

“I don’t know if it would make it better or worse… but how could I not try?”

Mary Margaret and David nodded, but only Mary Margaret spoke, “I never told you this, but we had Gold look into you after you didn’t come home and the school sent us that letter. He couldn’t find anything until you started bounty hunting, but it helped just to know that we tried, for that year. And after that… we just wanted you to come home of your own free will.”

“I’m sorry that I didn’t just…” Emma didn’t know what she was sorry for not doing. Not calling them? “I’m sorry I made you worry.”

“You came back eventually,” David said, about to change the subject to happier topics when a crack of thunder whipped across the sky, lightning flashing not a moment later as the sound of rain pattering on the roof grew loud

“Darn. I was hoping it would start a little bit later,” Mary Margaret pouted, “How about you stay here tonight. We’ll go help everyone take down tents and the like and meet you up here after you get your stuff. ” She and David were already grabbing their rain coats from the hall closet; Emma’s was in her tent, unfortunately.

“On second thought, why don’t you invite Killian to stay here too?” Emma was grateful that David suggested it. She didn’t know if Killian would be too stubborn to ask for somewhere to stay, but she highly suspected he would be. 

“Okay. I’ll see you guys in a bit,” she said as they parted ways at the door, her to go to the actors’ tents and them towards the tents and pavilions up for faire goers. As soon as the rain hit, the tourists had vanished, but some actors were caught unawares by the frenetic Maine weather and were only just gathering their things and making arrangements. 

Emma ran into Killian with his coat collar pulled up to his ears, headed towards his own tent. “Hey, my parents asked if you wanted to stay with us tonight,” She offered over the sound of the rain.

“Did they ask or did you?” He inquired. Emma hoped it wouldn’t have changed anything if she had, but she told him the truth.

“Oddly enough, they did. I think your roguish charm is wearing off on them.”

Killian scoffed and bent to help her take down her tent, “Yet your father still looks at me like he wants to kill me whenever I play the romantic with you.”

“He’s the one that insisted we play a couple. I’m sure it’s just instinctive. But I’ll happily protect you from the big bad dad if you can’t handle it.” It was difficult to banter over the sound of the rain, and they made quick work of her tent before moving to Killian’s.

“I think his eyes were about to fall out from staring too hard when Captain Hook decided to serenade Peter Pan,” he joked as he grabbed his stuff from his tent, throwing his raincoat over the leather coat he was already wearing. 

“I’m sure your being out of character truly disturbed his sensibilities as an actor.” 

“Sure, lass, whatever you want to call it.” They disassembled his tent before helping a few others and making their way to the house, glad to be out of the rain. David and Mary Margaret hadn’t returned yet. Emma felt compelled to go help, but it was difficult to take down tents with one hand and took a lot of maneuvering for Killian. If she went, he would insist on going.

So, after they changed into dry clothes, she offered him a beer, knowing her father wouldn’t mind much. He still didn’t like the idea of her drinking, especially alone with men, but beer was hardly what they were drinking the night before. When he took the beer from her, he felt the ghost of his hand on her, remembering how she had leaned into his touch when she let down her walls with the help of liquor.

Emma was glad Killian had stopped, because she wouldn’t have in her state. Though she wished it hadn’t been due to his hand. She didn’t mind that he wasn’t whole. Neither was she. 

“What kind of beer is this?” Killian frowned at the lack of a label.

“Whatever dad brews. He likes it really hoppy, but it isn’t bad.” 

“Empty nesters,” He said with a shake of his head, leaving the statement open.

“You’re telling me. This whole faire’s their new child or something. It’s kind of a weird feeling that your parents could do something this… big, just because they miss you or because they finally have free time.”

“Oh, I can imagine you took up quite a bit of their time, love. You’re quite a handful.”

She felt an almost-flush up her cheeks. 

“Like you’re not,” Emma retorted, pointedly not thinking about a different handful he could be.

“Of course I am; but my parents have been gone for a while.”

“What about your brother?”

“He spent all my parents’ money and died of heroin overdose in some faraway brothel, leaving me with whatever was in my fund for university.” Thank god it was quite a lot, or else he would be stuck with only an undergraduate degree in literature. Not a good place to be. Not that private school in America was a better place, but it certainly paid fairly well. 

“Wow. Makes me feel kinda bad for wanting a sibling,” she knew Killian had been well-off across the Atlantic, but she hadn’t known that he wasn’t still enjoying the patronage of his parents. But then again, he’d probably have an actual professor job if he had the connections money could buy. 

“Nah, he was a fine older brother. Navy man, stuck on the straight and narrow. Practically raised me. But something went wrong after he saw combat.” Emma nodded, not apologizing, not pitying. Killian wondered if she would react that way if he told her what Gold had done. 

“I’ve known vets like that. They never broke a rule in their life, but then they come home and they’re stealing, getting caught, jumping bail, and living on the streets. Even if they have a family, someone to come home to, they just… break.” Those are some of the worst cases for Emma: people who commit crimes because of survival and need to jump bail just to keep going. People a lot like she was. 

“Being alone is sometimes better. I feel like if I hadn’t been depending on Liam… maybe he would have been able to cope with it.” Or he would have gone down the rabbit hole even more quickly. Killian would never know. 

“Everything’s a little easier alone,” she agreed, chewing on her thumb absentmindedly. 

Killian narrowed his eyes and approached her, about to say something when the front door slammed open, carrying with it the laughter of David and Mary Margaret. The rain pattering on the roof and the sound of thunder came back to him, and he withdrew, taking a sip of the beer. It really was hoppy.

“Hi sweetie,” David said, “Killian,” He gave a nod.

“Hello mate,” he said, moving his prosthetic in an approximation of a wave. 

“Not your mate.” 

“You’re the one who invited him, Dad!” 

“I’m five feet away from her; hardly in a position to endanger anyone’s sensibilities,” Killian said with a cocky smirk.

“Oh, let up, honey; you did invite him. It’s nice to see you, Killian.” Mary Margaret said, taking her husband’s hand and leading them upstairs, “I’m sure you can settle him in, dear.” They retreated up to the master bedroom, her mother scolding her father as they went. 

“I told you he doesn’t like me.”

“It must be the accent,” She said, smirking as she took a pull of her beer.

“See, usually it has the opposite effect,” he pouted, eyes glaring into his almost empty beer bottle. 

“I think my dad worries that it has that on me and feels the need to go all _Taken_ on you.” He cringed, “Don’t worry. I’m immune to your charms.”

Killian grinned, going over to lean on the counter next to her. “You say that, love, but,” he whispered, “Your actions say something else.”

_Two can play at that game,_ Emma thought, leaning in close to murmur in his ear, “Says the one who really liked kissing me.” Intentionally playing coy with him, she placed herself close to his chest, leaning over to put her beer bottle in the sink and letting herself stand less than an inch from him, one foot between his and the other outside. 

He wrapped his arms around her waist in an intimate approximation of a dancing position, “Says the one who likes dancing with a pirate.”

“You do know that you’re not actually a pirate, right Killian?”

“Why couldn’t I be? I’ve got the right number of hand,” he said, leaving out the plural ‘s.’ 

Emma didn’t want to step away on that note, so she let out the yawn she hadn’t known she had been suppressing, “I should get you settled into the guest room.”

“Don’t care to join me?” he quipped, putting his bottle next to hers in the sink.

“Funny, Jones,” she said, effectively declining the offer.

But as she nestled into her bed, listening to the pounding of the rain on the roof and the soft snoring of her father from the master bedroom, Emma realized that home felt a lot more like home with Killian there.


	6. Rainy Day Blues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma asks Gold to help her locate her son, having decided it was time for her to get closure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys so we're halfway through. Sorry it took me two weeks to update but I was on vacation in Montreal and not feeling particularly inspired. But I have a plan for the rest of it and I think it will take about six more chapters... you know, unless I get carried away. I know sometimes it gets a little "he said this, they did this, she felt this" blah blah when I know what I want to write but don't feel like being you know, literary and stuff, but I'm trying to avoid it and I might go back and edit out some of the blah as I'm writing the next few chapters.

That morning, Emma woke up early, the rain still pouring down outside the window of her childhood bedroom. She knew Gold’s Pawn Shop would be opening in fifteen minutes, according to her bedside clock. Emma could be there when he opened and be back before her parents and Killian woke up, the early hour and dismal weather leaving her safe from prying eyes of Storybrooke’s citizens.

Putting on her boots and raincoat she crept out of the house, avoiding the steps she knew creaked. Since the entire faire ground was muddy and almost inaccessible in shorter boots, she took the paved street from the house to town, arriving at Gold’s just as he was turning the sign from CLOSED to OPEN. He stopped in the glass and looked at her, curiosity clearly piqued.

“And what can I do for Peter Pan today?” He asked as she walked in, “I hope it’s not about your Hook, because I’m afraid he wouldn’t appreciate your interference.”

She hesitated, narrowing her eyes, “No… it’s about me. Why would it be about Killian?”

“No reason, dearie. It’s just that your fights are causing quite a stir in an otherwise gossip-devoid little town. Lovers' quarrel?” Something in his eyes wasn’t right, almost ringing like a lie, but more of a half-truth. She ignored it, immediately working to dispose of the rumor that she and Killian were anything but friends.

“Just friends arguing. It happens during opening week, you know. We can both get a little short of temper.” Gold nodded, leaning on his cane heavily to preempt his speaking.

“So what are you really here for?”

“I need a favor.”

He pursed his lips before grinning slyly, “I wouldn’t have guessed. What specific service do you require of me?”

“You probably know this somehow,” Emma paused, “But I have a son who I gave up for adoption ten years ago.” His face remained blank; he didn’t even pretend a look of surprise.

“I want to know where he is, if he’s safe, what he’s like.”

Gold did a double-take, “You don’t want him back?”

She shook her head, “I didn’t have him in the first place. That’s the thing with a closed adoption…but he’s probably better off with his,” Emma swallowed, finding the word hard to say, “Family.”

He held out his hand, “I’ll just be keeping your favor for later, then,” She nodded quickly and shook his hand, more than willing to do anything to find out about her son. To get closure. “I don’t know how long it will take, but I’ll certainly have a head start with the weather today.”

Emma looked out the window at the deep puddles in the street, “I’d believe that. The ground’s too wet to even stake the pavilions over the audience if we did perform. I’m sure you’ll hear about the day’s cancellation soon.”

“Of course,” Taking a step back, he looked as if he was about to say something more, but instead nodded, “I’ll see you soon Miss Nolan.”

For whatever reason, the name made her startle a little. She was so used to being called Swan that the name felt unfamiliar. But she took the exit for what it was and made her way out of the shop, heading back to her parents’ house. 

Without a doubt, Killian was conveniently just coming down the stairs as she opened the front door. He was dressed in street clothes--rather than faire clothes--like her, clearly of the same opinion about the weather.

“Where were you?” Killian asked, rubbing at his eyes with the heel of his palm before running his hand through his unruly bedhead, somehow making it presentable with just a quick motion of his wrist. 

“Checking out the field. I doubt anyone would show up, even if we could ground the tents,” Emma told him, trying to exude confidence past the typical breathiness her voice took on when she lied. Hopefully he would think it was just the walk.

He surveyed her mud-less boots, but made no comment. 

“So, breakfast?” She offered, getting out the eggs. He stayed her hand. 

“How about I cook? I am the guest, after all.” 

Emma snorted, “You’re just as much a guest as I am, Killian.” 

“Swan, you should know better. A child is never a guest in her parents’ home,” he said, looking into her eyes as a distraction, so he could snatch the carton from her, holding it in the air above her. He wasn’t much taller than her, but she wasn’t going to risk jumping and breaking the eggs. 

She sighed, “Don’t be a child, Killian.” Emma put her hand on his chest, resigned to giving up the chase on the eggs. 

“Be more of a child,” He mocked, running away from _her_ distraction tactic along with the carton. Unable to help herself, she hurtled after him into the living room, vaulting over the couch only to crash into his chest. Thankfully he had a firm grip on the eggs, but the movement jarred them both, and he put his other arm around her waist to steady them. They were still laughing and recovering from the silly game when David and Mary Margaret came downstairs.

David lifted an eyebrow, “And what’s going on here?”

Killian answered first, “I’m cooking breakfast.” She used his releasing her and having a staring contest with her father to steal the eggs.

“No, _I’m_ cooking breakfast.”

“Cheater,” Killian stuck his tongue out at her.

“You’re the one who always cheats then uses the pirate excuse. Please,” she scoffed, separating the p sound from the rest of the word. 

“I’m going to be a gentleman and give up. But only because I probably would have buggered it up anyways.”

“Bad cook?” Mary Margaret asked as they all settled in at the breakfast nook.

“No, just haven’t tried to do anything more than toast or simple meals since I… Yeah.” He closed his mouth, worried that he had just created an awkward situation. Most people didn’t like acknowledging that he was less than a whole man.

“Well, I’m sure you can more than manage. How about you help Emma with the eggs.” Killian smiled gratefully at her suggestion. She clearly had been the parent of stubborn lass who needed to prove to herself that she could do everything without help. 

David was too, but he was also a snarky bastard when it came to Killian, “How about some bacon while you’re there?”

Killian flourished a bow, “As his highness wishes.”

He heard Emma snicker over the eggs and bumped her shoulder intentionally as he walked over to the fridge to find the bacon. She threw him a look and he faux-glared right back.

“Child.” 

“What, can’t take a little competition, lass?”

She knocked her hip into his, pointedly cracking the eggs onto the hot pan to make them sizzle, “Nope, but you know if the kitchen gets too hot for you, you can feel free to vacate.”

Smirking, he leaned down to whisper, “You do realize you just opened yourself up to a world of innuendos, right Swan?”

“Please, you’re too afraid of my parents.”

Killian paused, deciding, “Too right.”

“I don’t blame you,” she shrugged, and he hummed his agreement as they finished making breakfast for everyone. Mary Margaret had just gotten up to call Ruby and officially cancel faire activities for the day when the eggs were done, so Emma took them to the nook as Killian was putting the bacon on a plate and patting off the grease with a paper towel. 

Mary Margaret and Killian both came to the table at the same time; Killian automatically put down the bacon and pulled out her chair for her. Typically, David scoffed behind a mouthful of eggs and Mary Margaret thanked him with her characteristic grace.

“Everyone’s notified, though I daresay they probably expected it. It’s a monsoon out there,” Emma’s mother said before taking a bite of the bacon, “Thank you guys for making breakfast.”

“It was our pleasure,” Killian answered for both of them, knowing Emma would just say it was no problem and shrug off the thanks. Mary Margaret beamed and her husband dug in along with her.

Emma stared pensively at her food for a moment, “Killian, did you still want me to learn the lute?” 

“If it means I don’t have to sing the entire time, lass, then yes.”

David, of course, seemed confused, “Emma, why don’t you just play the violin?”

She opened her mouth, “Uh,” and closed it again, blowing air out through her nose in an almost-sigh. Trying to seem nonchalant, Killian focused on his food. Her discomfort practically radiated from her in waves. 

“I sold it to pay the medical bill for, you know…” Her parents nodded in understanding and Killian felt his phantom hand tingle. He knew too well about medical bills he didn’t want people to know about, and, out of deference, continued applying himself to his food.

“I’m sure we could borrow one from Gold’s store for the faire season; it’s not like he doesn’t have everything in there,” Mary Margaret suggested, almost as uncomfortable as everyone else at the small table. 

Emma sighed, “Honestly, I’ve been meaning to get a new one for a while; there’s just never been a good time; and really, I want to learn another instrument, it’s been too long since I’ve challenged myself musically.”

“If you’re good enough, you can keep the damn thing,” He interjected, figuring that it was time to change the subject matter and unfurrow the brows of those at the table. 

“No, Killian, you don’t have to do that,” Emma said, putting out her hand as if pushing away the offer.

“What else am I going to do with it, love? I’d rather you come back next faire season with new repertoire than have it sit unused in my care. Heaven knows I’d have smashed it months ago if I hadn’t thought someone else make better use of it than I.” Part of him was glad that his left hand was cut off, especially the part of him that had to write on the board for teenagers, but the musician in him was more than disappointed that he couldn’t at least strum with his false hand. He picked some egg out of his teeth with his tongue, suddenly under the cloud of silence that made him think he’d simply made the conversation more awkward.

“Thank you.” Emma said, leaving it at that before returning to her food. Killian felt a small smile tingling at the corners of his lips. 

“Don’t thank me yet; you have to be good enough to earn the thing.” She raised her eyebrow, swallowing her eggs before replying.

“I’ll try not to suck, then.”

He just winked, letting her form her own conclusions. She choked on her orange juice.

Thankfully Mary Margaret and David were having some sort of silent conversation and missed the interaction, turning back to Emma wiping juice off her chin with confused expressions painting their faces. 

“Uh, if you guys are done we can do the dishes, since you cooked,” David offered, gathering his own. 

Killian shrugged and Emma finished her last bite of eggs, pushing away her plate, “You ready to play music teacher?”

“Can’t be that much harder than literature,” Killian said with a twinkle in his eye. Far from displeased with the idea of trying to teach as talented a musician as Emma, he excused himself and went up to the guest bedroom to get the lute. As he walked down the stairs, a grin spread across his face before he remembered himself, and the last person with whom he had played the lute.

_There’s little for me to be happy about until I’ve avenged Milah,_ Killian reminded himself, his wrist tingling in a feeling that should have gone down to his hand, were it still there. 

But when Emma met him at the bottom of the stairwell with a smile in her eyes, his stormy mood lifted slightly and he managed a smile, handing her the case.

“You should probably learn to tune it first.”

She nodded at the couch, both as an answer to his suggestion and an indication of where they were to practice. The noises of David and Mary Margaret doing dishes in the kitchen were pleasingly domestic and provided enough background noise to distract him from darker thoughts.

“I think we’ll start with that and then move onto scales, before we try some Hot Cross Buns.” She chuckled over the case; it had probably been awhile since anyone suggested she start with such a simple tune.

Killian adjusted her hold of the lute and pulled his fingers down the strings, noting that each of them were just barely out of tune; he had de-tuned it for the bus ride to Maine and then re-tuned it, but that had been more than a week ago.

“The strings are G, D, A, F, C, D, and G from top to bottom.” He was about to pull out the tuner, but she was already at work.

_Right, perfect pitch._ He had forgotten about that particular talent of hers; he had noticed eventually that she never asked for notes like the rest of them and figured it out once they started busking together almost three years ago.

Most musicians were envious of that sort of natural musicianship, but he was perfectly happy to _not_ be the envy of others. He had enough problems without adding the fickleness of some musicians. That’s why most people who had perfect pitch never bragged about it.

“Sharp sharp flat sharp flat,” She bit on her lower lip as she fiddled with the final string, “Sharp.” Emma plucked down the now perfectly tuned strings one by one.

“Well you certainly don’t lack for pitch. Perhaps we can move onto scales,” He smiled encouragingly at her. She probably knew how good she was, but since her admission of being kicked out of music school—for reasons unknown to him—he had been sure to compliment her musicality as often as possible. 

As he expected, she had little difficulty with the scales and was already well into simple songs by lunch. She had problems learning the tablature, as it was in the Elizabethan style, but he assured her that his normal songs resembled modern guitar tabs. However, the determined lass still learned the archaic system from his old beginner’s book and was adding her own additions to the songs, even arpeggiating chords for effect after she had mastered the basic ones.

When they stopped for a lunch break Killian wandered to the window, not having thought about the dismal weather the entire morning. The sky remained dark with heavy sheets of rain breaking up any light that escaped the blanket of clouds dominating the sky.

“Don’t the clouds run out of water eventually?” Emma asked with a sardonic quirk to her voice, coming up next to him and mirroring his wistful stare out the pane.

He shrugged, “Not my area of expertise. English teacher, love.”

“You’re a man of many talents. I thought meteorology wasn’t too much of a stretch.”

The sound of his chuckle vibrated rich and deep in his throat, “Was that a compliment, Swan?”

Emma was about to answer with her characteristic lopsided smile and barbed wit when the doorbell rang, “It’s probably for David and Mary Margaret,” she said, almost hushed, approaching the door. But when she saw who it was her eyes opened in shock and something like anticipation. 

“It’s not nice to keep someone out in the rain, dearie.” 

Killian’s blood ran cold.

“Of course,” Emma shook her head and let the man—if he even was that—in, and Killian felt his jaw clench. He took a deep breath and tried to plaster an expression of indifference on his face. 

“Ah. I didn’t realize you had company. Perhaps you’d like to do this in private, unless he knows…” Emma threw Killian a look he knew meant he was intruding. He warred with himself and Gold’s eyes on him before being the bigger person. 

_Have your fun now, you snivelling Crocodile. I’ll have my revenge soon._

“I’ll go see if your parents would like any lunch,” he walked to the study where he knew Emma’s parents were doing paperwork for the faire, hardly ready to socialize, but ready to pretend for the lass’s sake. All he hoped was that she wasn’t getting herself into something she couldn’t escape. 

Emma turned back to Gold as soon as Killian disappeared behind the door frame, “Did you find anything?”

“Of course. And you understand the terms of our agreement?”

“Yeah, yeah… just show me.” She waved hurriedly at the file folder in his hand, nerves alight with worry and something churning in the bottom of her stomach that she couldn’t quite identify.

“I’m not sure it’s exactly what you were expecting…” Gold trailed off, handing her the folder.

As soon as she opened it and scanned the social services’ assessment of her son—Henry, he was called, and god did a name ever sound so perfect for that little pink baby of ten years ago—she knew why it wasn’t what she expected. 

“Why doesn’t he have a family? Why is he in some dump where they put all the unwanted kids?” Her voice cracked. Her vision clouded. She thought giving him up was going to give him a better life. She thought she couldn’t stand having a child as young as her mother did. She thought he would be a reminder of Neal. 

Was everything wrong? Did she put him there?

“According to the records, his first family had a child of their own and could not afford two children; they gave him up and he never found another family willing to take him in long term. Or maybe he was never willing to commit to them; the psychological profile is unclear on that. But I’ll let you peruse yourself,” He reached to put his hat back on, turning on his heel, but she grabbed his wrist, as if holding on for dear life.

“I need to… I need to save my son. He can’t… I can’t let him live like that. Can you help me... adopt him?” Gold nodded imperceptibly.

“It seems you owe me another favor. I’ll see what I can do.” He left without another word, eyes flickering behind her to where Killian and her parents were secluded in the study. Emma sat on the hall bench, legs shaking and unsupportive.

“Mom? Dad?” Emma called out, voice sounding helpless and breathy. She resisted the urge to wipe away the tears leaking down her face and ignored the bile rising in her throat.

“Honey, what’s wrong?” Mary Margaret said, kneeling down next to her daughter. Emma had never felt more the child when her mother’s arms wrapped around her.

As if hearing it from afar she heard the whispers of her father and Killian, and the gentle noise of the back door opening and closing.

David sat down on the other side of her, his arm coming around her shoulders, warm and strong, “Killian’s picking us up some lunch. I figured you’d want to be alone.”

“Thanks Dad,” she said between gasping breaths. 

“Gold came by?” 

The unspoken question hung in the air. 

“My son is still in foster care. He doesn’t have a family and it’s my fault,” Emma grit out.

“Oh honey…” It seemed neither of them knew what to say except to hold her and whisper that it wasn’t her fault and that she couldn’t control it and that she was giving him his best shot. She felt Mary Margaret’s tears hot on her own cheek and it only made her sob harder. 

When the tears had dried and she finally felt like she could breathe again, her parents didn’t even ask what she was going to do. 

Only if she needed help getting her son back.


	7. Stormy Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma finds out her son's whereabouts. Killian attempts his revenge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm already writing chapter 8 that's how excited I am about getting to this point in the plot. we're so close to captain swan goodness I can feel it.

Rather than intrude on the family moment—the lass had called for her parents, not him—at David’s suggestion, he went out to Granny’s Diner to fetch lunch. He shuddered as he pulled his fleece over his shoulders and opened his umbrella. Killian had never heard Emma so broken. What had Gold told her? 

Somehow, Gold was already far ahead the path from him, so Killian slowed his pace, half-debating between running up to him and taking a different path. Sick of ninnying around the bastard, he picked up his pace and came up beside the vile pawnbroker.

“Why is she crying?” Gold gave him an appraising look and took in a breath. 

“Hello Killian, nice to see you’ve moved on so quickly. It seems you’ve gotten over your proclivity for _taken_ women.”

“And it seems you’ve not gotten over your penchant for making lovely women cry.”

“You’re the one who has so swiftly taken a new lover. Tell me, do her parents like you? Does it hurt that she shared her secret with me and not you? That you’re so impotent that she went to me for help rather than you?”

Killian clenched his fist, and suppressed a growl, “She’s not my lover, and you’re avoiding the question. What did you do?” 

Gold sighed deeply and stopped next to him leaning on his cane with a predatory grin, “I simply gave her some information she asked me for. She didn’t take it well.” 

Resisting the urge to slug him and wipe the grin off his face, he pulled the older man close by his lapel, “You stay out of Emma’s life.” 

With a furious shake, Killian released the man, stalking past him and towards town, Gold’s almost manic laugh ringing in his ears, “Not the way I see things going, Jones.”

Even after he had reached Granny’s and was ordering for Emma’s family, his blood still pounded in his ears. He released his fist to get his wallet from his pocket and noticed the red half-moons he had pressed into his palm sting against the leather. 

_It has to be tonight. I can’t see her cry like that again._

“What’d that wallet do to you?” Ruby quipped as she pushed the take-out bag across the counter. Killian lightened his expression and smiled at her.

“Just caught up in my thoughts. Have a lovely afternoon.” 

“Killian.” Ruby’s tone bore hearing. She was serious about something and Killian wasn’t ready to anger her over it.

“Yes, lass?” 

“If it’s about Emma, don’t push her. We were friends in high school but she… she’s so completely different now that I can’t imagine that she’s had a pleasant time since then. Tread lightly, for both your sakes.” He nodded solemnly before turning and leaving, thoughts vacillating between his revenge and finding out what had happened to her.

He had never known her as anything but a hardened woman with a sharp sense of humor, but, in his first days of the faire, Ruby had once told him how much like her mother Emma had been. Idealistic and carefree. Full of hope. But with her father’s drole sense of humor. 

Of course, Killian understood that being kicked out of music school would have been enough to crush any young musician’s spirit, but what had she done? He couldn’t imagine Emma as anything but the perfect student, eager to learn, naturally talented, and far from boisterous. 

It was damn difficult to get kicked out of university. While he was hardly the partier his brother was, he had been far from serious scholar material in undergrad and still managed to get into graduate school.

Maybe it was different if you were from a po-dunk town in Maine and your parents were a school teacher and a veterinarian’s assistant. Regardless, Gold had to pay for his actions both those recent and those long left to simmer.

With that resolve in mind, he made his way back to the house, going slow enough to donate more time to his distraught friend and fast enough to keep the food from going cold. 

When he arrived at the house, rain-soaked and ego-sore, he was gratified when it was Emma who opened the door, eyes sad but shadowed with determination.

“Thanks for picking up the food,” She said, evading his questioning gaze and taking the bag from him with a small smile that didn’t reach her eyes. Her parents were in the kitchen exchanging worried whispers and Killian still managed to feel like an intruder in the small kitchen as Emma retrieved plates and silverware. 

“Run into anyone in town?” David asked, too nonchalantly not to be hiding something. The man was not the best liar. 

Killian raised his eyebrow, but replied anyways, “Ruby, her grandmother, et all. You know, those who regularly patronize the only restaurant in this town.” He had hopefully coated his lies in enough half-truths to throw off Emma—she was already emotionally distraught, so her lie-detector might not work as well.

But Emma wasn’t the one who caught his lie—it was her father. 

_I didn’t realize that was genetic._

“Really? And how is Mr. Gold, I’m sure he went there for his lunch break, as per usual.” Emma and her mother were in the corner putting food on plates and having a hushed discussion. Killian was on his own for this one.

“I don’t know what Gold told her about today; that wasn’t what that was about.”

“Don’t mess with him, Killian. Emma owes him; don’t put her in a dangerous position,” David warned, voice low and under the flow of noise from the others and the rain still pounding the roof.

Killian’s eyes flicked between David’s daughter and the man himself, “She’s already _in_ a dangerous position if she owes him. Gold is… he’s…” 

He didn’t know how to say what he meant without giving away the reason for his vendetta. His eyes pleaded with David to understand. The father searched his face for any trace of a lie, and the honesty and loss in Killian’s eyes was enough to make him nod his understanding.

“Just keep in mind that you’re not just toying with your future.” 

_I’m aware. Not only am I saving the memory of Milah, but I’ll save Emma from whatever deal she’s made._

_Even her father couldn’t have argued with that logic if he tried,_ Killian thought as his mind returned to the situation at hand. Lunch. Socializing. 

Tonight couldn’t come soon enough. 

After a few hours of lute playing and barely-conversation with Emma, it turned out that the night had snuck up on him. When he retreated to the guest room to get ready for bed, the rain started coming down harder, though it had abated somewhat in the afternoon. The weather channel had predicted that the storm would end in the middle of the night, after some dangerous lightning that had led to an advisory to stay inside. 

_At least I’ll know exactly where to find Gold,_ his mind acknowledged as he put his hook in the socket for his false appendage, relishing the way it gleamed in the half-light. Killian intended to send Gold to the river Styx with a bullet in his chest, but he wouldn’t mind taking his beady little eyes first. The eyes that had watched on carelessly as Milah bled to death in his arms, as Killian had cried out when the blade hidden in Gold’s cane had severed his hand from his wrist. 

Few things were worse than reliving _that_ memory, and unbidden came a new memory, from earlier that day, of Emma crying out for her parents, voice helpless and almost a whimper. His heart clenched in his chest and his fist clenched in the pocket of his waterproof fleece. 

As Killian heard the lights in the house click off and the telltale sound of David’s snoring, he waited fifteen more minutes, anxiously going over the anatomy of a gun in his mind, knowing that Emma hardly ever fell asleep quickly. After the fifteen minutes were up, he crept down the stairs and towards the front door, hand going to his inside pocket where he had hidden the keys he had swiped from Emma’s purse while she was putting away his lute before dinner. 

His boots slipped in the mud as he exited out the back door, headed towards the other end of the field where Emma’s bug was parked. He nearly turned his ankle more than once, shivering from the cold rain running down his face, but pressed on until he got to her car, unlocking it and finding just what he needed. The gun was oily and he slipped it into his pocket along with Emma’s keys. 

_I’m sorry, Emma._ Killian wasn’t thinking far past the next few minutes, but he knew it had to be apparent that Swan was not a part of his crime, merely a convenient friend with a gun.

Something warm slid down his cheeks along with the icy pellets of rain, and he ignored it as he trudged the rest of the way to town, thankful that Gold’s pawn shop remained on the outskirts of the cluster of buildings that was Storybrooke. 

He was unaware of the shivering woman following him, waiting for Killian to go wherever it was he was headed. Emma had been lying in her childhood bed, dressed for sleep but unable to think past the events of the day when she had heard the back door open and close. She cursed herself for leaving her gun in the car and grabbed her softball bat tucked in her closet, ready for intruders.

She did a quick sweep of the house, but found no one had intruded. But Killian’s boots were missing from the messy pile of shoes typically near the front door, and when she ran up to the guest room, he was gone as well.

Emma felt something sink in her gut like a stone, worry for Killian overwhelming all her senses. If he had felt restless he would have gone for a midnight snack—or a midnight flask of liquor—not a walk in the rain. When she saw a flash of lightning and not soon after heard the crack of thunder, she knew this wasn’t normal. 

Pulling on her own boots, Emma raced out the door after him, not even thinking to grab a jacket. 

Jaw clenched and fist tight around the heat of Emma’s gun, Killian leaned down to turn the knob on Gold’s door, finding it open. 

He didn’t think it odd—plenty of people in Storybrooke never would have thought to lock their doors—but the woman who snuck behind him before the shop door closed did.

_Gold is paranoid as all hell. This isn’t like him._ But then again stealing her gun and breaking into the local pawnbroker’s wasn’t exactly normal for Killian. Maybe he was having financial problems and was looking for something to steal? She knew it was expensive to live in New York, but teaching at a private school usually paid almost as well as being a professor. 

Then Killian made his way up the stairs, holding the gun in his one good hand and pulling back the sleeve of his fleece from his hook. Emma’s eyes narrowed as she followed, ignoring the gooseflesh crawling up her thighs and her cold ears and her rain drenched hair and the mud on her sleep-shorts from where she fell on the way out the door. 

Killian’s voice raised above the sounds of her thoughts whirling in her head, “I think you can guess why I’m here, Gold.” Emma stopped just before the stairs ended, listening through the wall. 

“Well, of course, dearie. You’re here to slaughter me like I did that supposed love of your life. Unfortunately I’ve got no lover for you to take off their hand. I suppose you’ll have to make do.”

“I’d never subject anyone to your version of love, you heartless bastard.” Killian’s anger was apparent to her from here, his voice sounded like rocks grinding together; it was so low and full of pain.

“Don’t you realize, Killian? Milah never loved you. Which is not to say that she loved me, but that she was using you.” Gold’s voice was acerbic, “Young, carefree, and well-educated, you were perfect to fulfill her needs. But you, like a child, clung onto the idea that she loved you, even though she hid you like a dirty secret.”

“She had to hide because she couldn’t be free of you! Your deals and your schemes and the people you hurt just because they got in your way. She told me what you’d done to people. How you drove your son away, then drove her away.” Killian spat out and cocked the gun, “You’re the monster.”

At the sound of the round clicking into place, Emma was half-ready to jump into action, and took a step into the light of Gold’s apartment, wood creaking under her wet boots.

“Ah, Miss Nolan, late to the party, I see,” Gold seemed nonchalant, but his back was stick straight and his eyes were trained on the barrel of the gun Killian had aimed at him.

“Don’t. Killian.”

He growled, “You don’t understand Emma. He killed her. He took my hand and made me a cripple. He’s done it before. Killed other people.”

“And I’ve killed other lovers of Milah’s before.” Killian’s head snapped back around to a grinning Gold.

“Oh, how cute,” Gold’s eyes flickered to Emma, “He thought he was the first boytoy Milah’s had.” Killian’s mouth twitched, eyes filling with hurt, “You were just the last.” 

Emma saw Killian squeezing the trigger, just a hairsbreadth, “Please. Killian.”

“You don’t understand,” He repeated, voice clouded with emotion.

“No, you don’t understand!” Emma yelled, shaking his shoulder. Killian put down the gun, blue eyes pools of black in the low light and gaze questioning. His shoulder was taut, shaking, as if he were just barely restraining himself from evading her grip. She moved her hand to his collar, other going to his hand.

“I need him to help me get my son,” she breathed out, eyes searching his and her face crumpling, “I need to get my son back, Killian.”

Emma felt his hand relax under hers, and she gripped his wrist like a lifeline, “Please.”

“You should listen to the lady.” 

“Shh. Shh. Don’t listen to him, Killian, just,” She put her forehead to his, breathing in as he breathed out, steadying herself against his solid form, “Don’t.” 

Briefly, their eyes met. Killian nodded. His hand shifted under hers and suddenly her gun was back in her hand, still warm from his. And he was gone, contact broken as he thundered down the stairs, away from her. She nearly wept at the chill that then settled over her. 

“Why thank you, Miss Nolan,” Gold said smugly just as she was gathering herself to run after him. 

Emma fumed, biting her lip and nearly drawing blood, “Shut up, Gold. This is my first favor, repaid. Get me my son.” She handed him the gun, knowing it would be dangerous to leave it anywhere Killian could find it, “I’ll be coming back for this later.”

“Of course.” 

Restraining the urge to take back the gun and shoot him herself, she took the stairs two at a time, running to the shop door, expecting Killian to already be gone. But, thank God, he was still there, leaning against the outside of the pawnshop, head hung low and breathing heavy. 

She put her hand on his arm, but he jerked away from her as if she were poisonous. Emma tried not to be hurt by it, but unintentionally sucked in a sharp breath. _It isn’t about you, Emma. He’s in pain right now._

“Out with it, Swan.”

“Out with what?” She asked, hugging herself as lightning split the sky and throbbed behind her eyes.

“Tell me why I’m a bad person, why revenge isn’t the answer, why I’ve just fucked everything up for you. All that gob.” Killian was still looking down, apparently fascinated with his shoes.

“What were you gonna do after?” Emma asked, voice quiet behind the thunder.

“After what?”

“After killing him. Did you think you could get away with it? Pin it on me?” 

“God, no, Emma, why would you think that?” His eyes met hers, flashing with hurt, “I don’t know what I was going to do, but I certainly would have taken responsibility for my actions. I’d never hurt you.”

“Really Killian? Because you’re hurting me right now. You almost cost me my son.” _Almost cost me you, you idiot!_

“I didn’t know!” He shouted back at her. Breathing out through her nose, she stomped and let out a noise of frustration before heading back towards the house, “Well, I didn’t!” He pleaded, “If you hadn’t been so goddamn secretive…”

“Oh no, don’t you give me that crock of shit, Jones.” She turned around, still walking backwards as she poked a finger into his chest, “You’re the one who said we weren’t family, who said that nine months of the year we weren’t even friends. You’re the one who put up that barrier. Not me.”

Before he could even form a reply, she was hitting his chest, futile open handed hits that did little but jar him; he gripped her shoulders, “You could’ve gone to jail. You could’ve left me. You wanted to leave me.”

Her voice was small and his heart lodged itself in his throat, “I think I wanted to die.” 

She looked up at him, hands stilled on his chest, “I didn’t think I was going to survive killing him… and even if I did. I think your gun would have been used more than once, love.”

His face crumpled and Emma’s fingers were there, curling around his collar, pulling his face to her neck. The gesture was so motherly and tender that Killian wondered how he had never noticed that maternal ferocity in her. 

“Don’t you ever do that to me, Killian Jones. Or I will bring you back and kill you myself.” 

“Duly noted,” he said, pressing his nearly frozen nose to the cleft of her neck and shoulder, noting how cold she was, all over. She was only wearing a tank top and sleep shorts with her rain boots. 

_God, I’m an idiot._

She huffed a laugh, but it came out like half a sob; he thought he might have said his thoughts aloud. He pulled away from her and found her mirroring their earlier position, face between his collar and neck, hot tears leaking onto his chilled skin. Killian’s hand came up to the back of her head, gently running his fingers through her damp hair, marveling at how it could still be so soft even drenched from the rain. 

“Let’s get you home,” he whispered in her ear, pressing a kiss to her temple. She nodded numbly, as they separated and he pulled off his fleece, draping it over her shoulders. 

As they approached the drive to her parents’ house, Emma turned to him, mouth open as if she were forming a question, he shivered, “Can it wait until we’re inside?” He was in fairly warm clothing and he couldn’t imagine that Emma wasn’t ten times colder than he was. 

She closed her mouth on her thoughts and he put his hand on the small of her back as they quietly opened and closed the front door. Killian breathed out in relief as his ears reached for the sound of David’s snoring and found it. He and Emma were a mess and he didn’t want to explain it to her angry father, or her mother, for that matter. 

Emma toed off her boots, teeth chattering, “I’m g-going to g-go g-get changed. You should-d d-do the same.” She was still wearing his jacket.

“Aye, lass. Then we’ll have a talk?”

“And hot ch-chocolate,” she amended with a determined look about her. 

“As you wish.”


	8. The Morning After

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian and Emma finally open up to each other fully.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I thought I was only going to need 12 chapters to finish, but given that I did an entire chapter based on one conversation and I have to get through the rest of the faire-season to get to my next major plot point... I'll probably need a few buffer chapters.

Killian noted that his phone was brightly advertising midnight as the time. It was already a new day and he wasn’t any closer to his revenge. Part of him wanted to run back to Gold’s shop and tear his throat out with the hook he was currently unscrewing from his prosthetic base. The other half of him was aware of the almost hypothermic woman in the other room whose son’s welfare hung in the balance.

_She has a son._

He wasn’t much older than her, but the idea of a son seemed like something so far in his future he couldn’t contemplate it. Of course, he had thought about it with Milah, but she had told him that she only had one child and wasn’t ever going to replace him.

_But was she just trying not to make a commitment to you, thinking Gold would kill you like he had others?_ Killian shook his head as if to free himself from the downward spiral his thoughts had taken. He threw on sweatpants and an old university sweatshirt he kept with him for chilly nights in his tent. 

It was difficult to censor his thoughts, to not feel the slick warmth of the gun in his hand warring with the feeling of Emma’s hair under his hands, her skin under his lips.

_Maybe I didn’t love Milah as much as I thought either._ Even acknowledging the thought felt like a punch in the gut, conceding that what he had conflated as love in his mind might have been a fling for the both of them. While he had wanted more, she had known he wasn’t going to live long enough for that. And that was enough to taint the memory of her dusky skin and dark curls, bringing unbidden thoughts of wet golden strands of Emma’s hair and the pink of her lips as she smiled. 

He threw his wet clothes in the corner, effectively throwing away the train of thought as he made his way downstairs. Emma was already there, heating up milk over the stove and bundled in a fuzzy white robe with her hair in a mussed bun. He stopped short from entering the kitchen and lingered in the doorway, laughing silently to himself at the picture of domesticity she made. He imagined a small boy, no more than ten, wrapping his arms around her robe-clad legs as she stirred the pot on the stove. Before he could imagine himself into that picture, she turned, spotting him. 

“Trinity, huh?”

“Aye.”

“That’s a good school.”

“It was just my undergrad, love. I went to Cambridge for graduate school.”

“So fancy,” she said in mock-awe. 

“I know. And look how well I’m using my degree. Teaching kids as posh as I was to be even more pretentious wankers who, in addition, can analyze Milton.”

“At least you’re doing what you were meant to do, even if it’s in a smaller scale, or a different age group. You love teaching right?”

“That I do.”

She took the milk off the heat and started to stir in cocoa, looking up at him as she sprinkled in cinnamon, “What would your students think? If you’d…”

_Pulled a homicide/suicide_ went unsaid. 

Killian sighed and wiped his hand over his face, stump firmly planted in the pocket of his sweatshirt, “I don’t know what I wanted… Why I even thought I could have done that to myself. Now that I know Milah didn’t…”

“Hey,” Emma said, putting her hand on his shoulder, “Don’t let what Gold said change how you felt about her. But don’t let your quest for revenge inflate the past either.” 

“You are wise beyond your years, Swan.”

She remained silent, grinning to herself as she poured their mugs of hot chocolate.

“Is it a mother-thing or a you-thing?” He asked, intentionally bringing up the subject of her motherhood.

“I think it might just be that I’m experienced in pain beyond my years,” Emma said ruefully as she handed him a mug, “I… I think I should start at the beginning. Of my story. Then you can do yours. Then we’ll hug it out and get some sleep.”

“Sounds like a plan,” He said, gesturing for her to precede him to the couch. After putting her mug on the coffee table, she grabbed one of the throw blankets of the back, draping it over their feet as they faced each other, legs tangled in the middle of the couch and backs resting on the pillows. His socked foot moved over her un-socked one and he felt a little jolt go through her. She was ticklish at the bottom of her feet and somehow that was even more endearing than the robe.

“So I went off to college, little Emma ready for the big world, and I met this guy. He was… amazing. He knew all these instruments and he didn’t have perfect pitch but he tried to memorize every note instead. He gave me gifts, like,” She toyed with her necklace, “This. And we were in the same Music History class and he was a year older and I was always in his dorm room. I practically lived there. I…even left my laptop there. The one with my final essay on it. And he took it and turned it in and I didn’t even know. Then I went to turn mine in and when I get the grade back the professor says that I plagiarized and that I have to go to a trial in front of a review board. I told him that he stole my essay, but when it came to trial there was all this evidence piled against me—I don’t even know where it came from—and I was expelled. The bastard got off scot free. He had a father with connections and I was just another scholarship kid.” Killian now understood why she wore the necklace—to remind herself never to trust. Much like he now wore his stump. Though his was a bit more permanent a reminder. 

She took a sip of her cocoa and then a deep breath.

“That’s when I found out I was pregnant.” 

Killian felt his entire body tense up. He knew how stubborn Emma was; she would never go to her parents. He felt like a witness in the split instance before two cars hit each other, knowing the outcome, but still frozen by shock. 

“And I stole to get by. I kept living in Oregon, but never got up the courage to tell him about the baby. I didn’t want the kid to know he had a cheater for a father. Nor did I want him to know he had an eighteen year old for a mother. I had a closed adoption, and I thought… I thought he went to some nice family.”

“I didn’t even hold him before I gave him away… I didn’t want to get attached.” Killian put his mug on the coffee table and reached over to find Emma’s hand, squeezing it in sympathy. 

“So I kept stealing to get by, an older cop and his wife took me in instead of turning me in. And then I got into the bail bonds business, which lead me to Boston, which lead me back to the faire. And my parents.” Killian somehow felt that that wasn’t the end of the story.

“And after we talked about my past and me being kicked out of music school I realized that,” She looks at their clasped hands, “I didn’t want to not have closure about my son. So I asked Gold to get me his information, what he was like, what kind of family he had.” 

“So yesterday…” Killian picked up the thread of her story, only half-understanding the situation.

“He told me that Henry hadn’t been living with the family that adopted him from me because they had their own child and returned him like you’d return a book you never read or bottles to the store. And he’s in the fucking system, being bounced around from foster family to foster family. And even though I knew it was too much to owe Gold that many favors, I asked him to help me adopt my son.” 

“And if I had killed him you would never have gotten your son.”

“Not in any sort of semi-legal way that doesn’t violate my closed adoption contract, no. But Gold can pull those strings. And get me my son a lot quicker, without all the background checks and questions about why a single woman with a dangerous job wants a child.” 

“I’ll happily pose as your doting husband, love,” He jested, lightening the mood. 

Emma chuckled, “In your dreams.”

Killian thought about them sitting on the couch with a child between them, watching a movie, happily domestic, _Maybe, Swan, maybe._

“So? Do I get the low down on the Life and Times of Killian Jones, or are you going to leave me in the dark?”

“Of course not. You’re much too pretty to be left in the dark.”

Emma gave a roll of her eyes while sipping at her chocolate, “Uh-huh. Out with it, Jones.” 

“Impatient, are we?” In lieu of responding, she lifted an eyebrow. So he began his tale, tempted by the hot cocoa on the coffee table, but unwilling to relinquish his hold on Emma’s hand. 

Sometimes it really sucked not having two hands.

“Well, Milah and I met around the same time as I joined your merry band of faire-folk. I’m sure you knew her better than I did, so I don’t have to describe her… nature to you.”

Emma shook her head, “Gold and his wife used to live between here and Portland—Maine, not Oregon—where their son went to private school. I never really knew Mr. Gold that well until I joined the faire, and Milah was always quite solitary. I didn’t even know you two were even friends, much less lovers,” she seemed uncomfortable with the word and used the blanket only half covering her foot as an excuse to remove her hand from his. He felt the loss of warmth with a pang, but grabbed his cocoa, wishing it was more alcoholic. 

“You can probably guess why. Her husband never encouraged her to have friends. Though apparently he didn’t mind her lovers, until he had to kill them. God, I wonder what poor bastards have died at his hands.”

“Luckily not you.”

“No. But no one—them or Milah—deserved to die for a dalliance… or even for love.” His eyes met hers and she found herself unable to look away, locked into his gaze. 

He broke the eye contact, peering around at the rest of the house, and finally noticing that the rain had stopped, “We began our affair last summer, sneaking into dark corners and the like. We planned—or maybe I planned—that I could find a job as a professor at a university far enough away to escape his grasp. I had only just started applications when she came to my place the day before Christmas, upset and, I thought, in love with me and ready to leave him. Just as we were sitting down to breakfast on Christmas morning, Gold came. She didn’t want me to answer the door. Now I know why.” 

Emma’s body shifted and he felt her legs intertwining with his, almost like an embrace. 

Killian kept going, “Apparently I was the last straw because he cut her throat, then cut off my hand. After she died… these men came in, to clean up the body,” he stared down at his drink, throat closing with emotion, “And I passed out and woke up in the hospital. No one knew anything about any other body. The paramedics came and saw that I had been chopping vegetables and cut off my hand somehow. But since they couldn’t find a hand,” He held up his stump helplessly. 

She jerked as if frustrated, pulling her elastic out and half attempting to put it back up, “How could they even believe that total B.S.? Who loses their frigging hand? Or cuts it off for that matter?”

“Gold has friends in many places,” Killian shrugged. She gave up the attempt to put her now dry hair back up. 

Emma muttered, “God, I am sick of people with _connections._ ”

“Hey,” Killian cajoled, “That’s what’s getting you your son.”

She nodded with her typical determination, but just as he finished his hot chocolate, her eyes flickered up to him hesitantly, “What if I’m not a good mother?”

He smirked and put down the mug, “Am I not enough of a child to prove that you are already well on your way to successful motherhood?” She suppressed a smile and put down her mug, reaching for his hand. It wasn’t abnormal for them to share friendly touches, but it was clear that they were both starved for contact. Their craving for touch became even clearer when Emma put her forehead to the back of his hand like she was receiving a blessing.

“What if he hates me because I abandoned him?”

Her voice was small and her face was masked by the golden curtain of her hair, but her breath felt shallow and timid against his hand. More now than ever he wished he had a second hand to push back her hair and put under her chin. As if she knew what he wanted, he felt her hand leave his and go to his stump. Killian used his free hand to cup her jaw, ignoring the electric sensation of her hand caressing the knotted skin covering his remaining limb. Their eyes met and he couldn’t help but smile, “He’ll love you because you clearly never stopped loving him.” 

“I thought I was giving him his best chance,” She trembled, trying to keep herself from being overwhelmed with the fact that she could have been there his entire life. His hand moved from her jaw to cradle the back of her head, twining in her thick hair. Without hesitation, she used her hand to pull his stump to a quiescent position on her neck, resting her own hands on his forearms, absently rubbing her thumbs up the undersides of his arms.

Why was she always looking down? He brought his forehead to hers, “You are his best chance now, love. You weren’t then. Just forgive yourself, lass. You did nothing wrong.”

“Then why does it feel like my fault?” 

“Because you’re too good a person by half, Swan,” he chuckled breathily, good intentions tainted by her proximity. 

“Am I? Because you were just going to avenge your dead lover and now I want to kiss you in my parents’ living room.”

He licked his lips and let out an amused puff of air from his nose, avoiding looking at her lips, “We all have our weaknesses.” Her hands were sliding from his forearms towards his neck and his fingers were tracing small circles into the back of her neck, making her breath hitch. 

Killian was pressing forward, aching with the need for contact when she interceded, lips forming words millimeters from his, “I can’t do this.” 

He sighed and pulled away, ready to move to the other side of the couch, “Of course you can’t.” 

She let out an annoyed huff, “It’s not like that Killian. I—I have my son to look after.”

“And?” He parted from her, voice angrier than he meant it to be.

“And what?” She evaded. 

He arched an eyebrow. 

“And…” She looked down, but quickly came back up and met his eyes, “You’re still in love with a ghost. I can’t… I don’t even know what Gold would do if he thought…”

Killian sighed, “I highly suspect that he would do nothing but gloat that I’m as fickle as he wants to paint Milah out to be. He already thinks we’re lovers anyways. But if you can’t… then I won’t. End of story.” His eyes were drawn to hers, and he saw that they were serious, glinting dully in the ambient light.

He faked a yawn and knew she would see the lie, but didn’t much care to hide the hurt seething inside his chest and tried his best to dispel the lingering of her touch on the back of his neck. 

“I’ll bid you goodnight, Swan,” He took his mug to the kitchen sink and washed it, while she sat prone on the couch, studying her knees.

He gave her one last look before he went up the stairs, trying to wash his hand—singular—of her and yet he still replayed the sensation of her own hand gingerly caressing his stump, like she would were his hand still there, and the scent of her hair as it tickled over the side of his face. 

_God, I’m done for._


	9. Changes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Killian and Emma deal with the aftermath of their stormy night. Emma gets a fresh start of sorts.

Breakfast was tense, lacking the camaraderie that the meals of the day before had displayed. Killian chewed at his food as if he didn’t taste it. Emma’s eggs were too salty and she picked at them with her fork, thoughts occupied with the gun in Gold’s shop and her son. There was a recent picture of Henry in the file, but it had quickly moved into her wallet, before taking a permanent place in her pocket. Her fingers itched with the need to take it out and make the idea of her son fully tangible. 

Mary Margaret and David were absorbed in scheduling all the shows from Friday into the next two days, scribbling on a piece of paper and dealing with times and tables, ignoring both Killian and Emma. That suited them both.

Images of bullets and how Killian could have committed a murder with her gun kept flashing in her head. What if Henry thought her job was violent? What if something happened to her? What if she couldn’t take care of him all the time? Emma sighed and pushed away her plate, mumbling something about changing. 

She made it to the hallway before realizing that Killian was following her. Sighing, she turned around to face him, “What?”

“I was just going to use the WC, love.” He pointed in the bathroom, eyebrow raised as if asking for permission. 

“Oh.”

He let a derisive noise out of the side of his mouth, “Did you think I wanted to have another row in front of your parents? That I’d chase after you with another damn fight just after we’ve cleared the air?”

“No… I just,” She couldn’t finish the sentence, not knowing what she had wanted from Killian following her. Retreating up the stairs, her fingers dug in her pocket for her picture as she planted herself on the stairwell and looked for something, anything about her son in the blue-background school picture. 

Is he happy? Does he like animals? Does he like to read? What’s his favorite color? Does he play video games? Have any weird talents? 

Is he musical?

The questions swirled around her mind and she couldn’t keep herself from wishing she could talk to Killian about it, wishing he had been following her to be her sounding board, to ask her what was on her mind. But it seemed she was on her own in her anticipation, which was probably for the best. 

_Get here soon, kid._

The days after the storm passed by her in a hazy mess, her eyes meeting Gold’s every time they walked by each other, but he always gave her an abrupt shake of his head. If Killian was with her, she imagined Killian’s blood was boiling, but he would still place a comforting hand on her shoulder. Things had gotten better between them, especially after they had done their second performance of _Peter Pan_ and learned to ignore everything that had happened in the past week.

That technique worked for a good three weeks, before Gold came up behind Emma and Killian backstage after their show, catching them both unawares until he cleared his throat. 

“You’ll have him in a week,” Gold handed her a sheet of paper with flight information on it; “You’ll have to pick him up from the airport.”

Emma blindly accepted the document, practically floored with surprise and mouth agape, “Wow… Th…”

“Please, don’t say thank you. You owe me.” And with that he stalked back to the crocodile rig, dismantling it with practiced ease. 

She froze, eyes trained on the paper as she tried to wrap her mind around the fact that her son was almost here.

Killian brought her back to her senses, hand on her shoulder, giving her a light shake, “Swan, be happy. You’ve got your son.” 

Her eyes filled with relief, “Yeah,” Emma turned to him, giving him one of her rare smiles, “Thank you for not killing Gold.”

Smiling bitterly, almost a wince, he replied, “All water under the bridge, love.” 

Emma didn’t believe it for a second, but she wrapped her arms around him in a tight hug anyways, “If I ever get that favor back, I’ll make him pay for you,” she whispered against the shell of his ear. If she had forgotten how easy it was to be this close to him, how well his arms slotted around her waist, well she remembered now.

“We should go greet the crowd,” Killian breathed, giving her a seemingly friendly peck on the cheek before breaking the embrace. 

She grabbed his sleeve and pulled him towards the exit, actually excited to interact with all the young boys for the first time in three years because she knew hers would be with her soon. 

After the children had their fill of the actors' antics, Mary Margaret and David were waiting for Emma and she rushed to them to share the news. Killian didn’t bother to excuse himself. Making his way to the dining tent without them to give them their family time. He had already shared in her joy as a friend, but he was far from family to the lass.

Of course, that's where Gold cornered him, as Killian took a less crowded way through the alleys of their city of tents, wanting to be alone and getting the opposite of his wish.

"Enjoying the view?"

Killian scowled, "What the hell do you mean by that?" 

Gold's chuckle was without mirth, "Why, the view from the outside looking in, of course."

Killian bit back the hurt that ached in his throat, knowing it was true and unwilling to accept it from the bastard's mouth, "I would watch my tongue if I were you. Emma's debt to you is the only thing keeping you alive right now."

The older man’s eyes narrowed into slits, reminding Killian just how dangerous his foe was, "And if I didnt think that she would kill me if I reciprocated your attempt on my life, you would not still be breathing.” Gold's hand went to the ornate handle of his cane, which Killian knew contained something that could do the job effectively.

"If you think Emma would be in the business of revenge, you're dead wrong. She has her son to worry about now," Killian said, knowing it was true. Emma wasn’t like him. She was a damn hero in comparison to him. 

"It must be blissful to have so little brain in your thick skull that you can’t even comprehend the feelings of those closest to you. Much like you couldn’t understand Milah’s motivation for using you."

Killian remained silent.

"But you're right. Even if Miss Nolan cares for you, her son pretty much bars any chance you might have had with her." He grinned, slowly, before speaking through his teeth, emitting a serpentine hiss, "Funny how that worked out so cleanly."

And with that Gold took his leave, apparently done with taunting Killian.

Killian was about to go whatever way Gold wasn’t going, when he heard her.

"Were you just talking to Gold?" Emma inconveniently had been heading towards the food tents with her parents, who had gone on without their daughter at her urging. 

"He didnt say anything to you, did he? 

He shook his head, turning on his heel, somehow angry at Emma for putting him in this position, knowing that he would be unable to control his short temper if he opened his mouth to respond. She grabbed his arm, the one with the hook. Killian tore it from her grasp, digging a scratch in her hand that made her wince.

But he didn’t know that he had, overwhelmed by the sound of his own thoughts. He kept walking, not towards the food tents, but back towards his own, ready for another night in with his ale. He had become used to those in the past few weeks.

Emma stood there for a moment, the shock evident on her face, but her mind blank, torn between anger and surprise. He had never hurt her before, even unintentionally. Killian just wasn’t that way, more protective than anything, and certainly not as bitterly angry as he had been in the past month.

_I would be angry too if the man who had taken love and limb from me was still alive because of an obligation to a friend._ Emma understood his ire, but he wasn’t the type to take it out on others, usually a self-flagellating martyr if there ever was one.  
She sighed and bound the wound in her ex-scarf-cum-sweatband, determined to grab an actual bandage from her tent after having a nice dinner with her parents, her family.

When Emma arrived at the food tent, they had already gotten her a plate of her usual favorites, but their spot also contained Regina Mills, the town’s mayor and the kind of actress that could pull off a villain without making it tacky.

Mary Margaret was trying to hide a smile when Emma sat down, and she just knew that her mother was planning something. 

Regina spoke first, “So, Miss Nolan, it seems you’re adopting, congratulations.” Emma nodded, about to politely thank the mayor before Regina cut her off.

“You know, this town’s been short a sheriff since Humbert left. If you wanted something a little safer than your regular gig, I’m looking to get that Portland rent-a-cop out of her and let our town breathe easy again.”

Emma was floored, eyes flitting between her grinning parents and the mayor, “I…am I even qualified for that?”

Regina pursed her lips, lipstick immaculate even after a muggy faire day, “I can take care of that.” 

That was exactly what she didn’t want to hear. With a deep sigh, Emma heaved herself up from the table, “I’m done owing people in this town.”

She walked away from the issue, and her parents knew better than to pursue her or push her about it. Emma knew they were trying to help, but ambushing her with Regina was low. The idea of living in Storybrooke wasn’t horrible to her by any means, but she had been planning to tell her parents she was moving to Portland anyways, and forty-five minutes wouldn’t be any impediment to them seeing their grandson.

Her frustration became misplaced when she saw Killian drinking pensively outside his tent, eyes swirling with his special brand of self-loathing. Emma made her way over to him and grabbed his flask from him, drinking down more than a gulp. Her throat burned and Killian raised a bemused eyebrow.

“Bad day, love?” He smirked, control regained from earlier with the relaxing properties of alcohol in his system, “I would have just offered. I’m always happy to get you drunk and pliant.”

Emma let out a derisive noise, “Not the kind of drunk I want right now, _mate_.” The word sounded mocking, harsh and consonant with the flavor of alcohol. She took another swig and relinquished the flask back to its owner.

“So am I the problem this time?” Killian asked, staring into the bottom of the flask like it could give him the answers to all his problems.

“Nope. My parents are the problem this time.”

Killian chuckled, the sound chalky and acerbic, “What horrifyingly loving and caring thing have they done this time?” 

Emma ignored the comment, taking the flask back with a pout, “They made Regina offer me a job. A ‘safer’ job. Here.”

“As?”

“Town sheriff.”

Sighing, Killian put his hand on the flask, not taking it back, but simply moving his hand over hers gently, “You should take it…” He trailed off, looking at her other hand, bound in her scarf, well actually Killian’s old scarf from his original costume. He grabbed the hand and she bit back a hiss at the sharp pain.

“Did I…?” She tilted her head at his hook, which he had yet to take off, acknowledging the culprit. 

He gritted his teeth, letting out a low growl and stalking back into his tent. She was about to get up and go after him, but he came back out with his small first aid kit.

“It’s barely a scratch, Killian, you really don’t have to…” But he was already pouring rum over the wound, making her wince.

“Hey—what the hell?”

“It’s just rum, love, and a bloody waste of it.”

“You can’t just use hydrogen peroxide like a normal human being?” He gave her an unamused look and she let it be as he wrapped the gauze around her hand.

“I’m sorry I let my temper best me.”

She brushed it off, “It’s not a big deal.”

“No, Emma,” her eyes snapped to meet his at the use of her name, not love, not Swan, not lass, “It was wrong of me.”

Not breaking eye contact, she nodded slowly to show her forgiveness, finding her mouth dry and throat full of unanticipated emotion. They remained silent while he finished wrapping her hand, tying the gauze in a knot with his teeth.

“So sanitary,” she commented wryly. 

Killian laid a kiss across her knuckles in response to her mock complaint, eyes twinkling playfully at her from under his eyelashes. Emma had to suppress a laugh at his clowning, “There you go, my princess. All better.”

“Why thank you, kind prince.”

He grinned and let go of her hand, “In all seriousness, lass, I think you should take the job,” She groaned, but he rolled his eyes and went on anyways, “Whenever you answer my emails the timestamp says some god awful hour of the morning and you never end up eating a home cooked meal even though I am assured by your mother’s skills that you can cook.” Emma glared at him.

“How can you expect to take care of him without a set schedule? While I’ve no doubt that he’s a self-sufficient lad given his upbringing,” Her glare intensified and he sighed, “You want to be there for him? So be there for him. Work a nine to five, make him dinner, and pack his bloody lunches. You want him to be close to his grandparents? Then they can be his babysitters. Want to alienate him? Keep acting like you’re only taking care of yourself, because we all know that that’s why you’re doing this. To be independent.”

Emma licked her top lip, letting a frustrated huff out of her nose, “Henry and I can manage.”

“You don’t have to, though, that’s the point, love.” 

“Don’t act like you’re a part of this decision, Killian. You’re the one who lives in New York, not me.” 

“I’m not a part of it, you’re right, but I am your friend and it’s my duty to tell you when your stubbornness is getting in the way of your best interest,” Killian’s eyes were dark, but his voice was quiet and calm. 

Her voice was just as eerily filled with calm, like the quiet before a storm at sea, “My best interest is getting the man who tried to kill someone out of my life as soon as I get my son.” With that she left him, taking a piece of him as she went. 

Killian tried to keep the pain out of his demeanor when he called after her, “Is that a promise, love?

Of course, Emma didn’t respond, far past giving him a way into her heart. She didn’t need someone who questioned her around her son. Killian was right in that she needed a nine to five job, and she was just offered the perfect job. But that didn’t make him right about anything else. 

She would tell David and Mary Margaret—and the mayor—about her decision in the morning. In the meantime, she had to get a hold of a newspaper and start looking at the classifieds.

Emma didn’t want to consider the possibility that she wouldn’t be forgiven for her cruel words, but as the week went on, it became clear that she had gone too far, even for Killian’s tolerance. But her life was busy with her new job and her new apartment, so she had other things to think about. 

And once she met Henry at the airport and he sassed her with: “How the heck does a single woman manage to adopt?” She knew that he was her kid. And he knew too, when she told him on the car ride back to Storybrooke, Henry had been angry at first, but when she told him her circumstances, he understood. Of course, it took them awhile to warm up to each other. He was excited to know his biological mom, and she was just as ready to pick up where they left off.

But in the quiet moments, when they were both strained for words, she could see the same expression in his face that she often wore. A world-weary look that no one his age should have to wear. 

“So, I figured you and I could decorate your room as a first thing. I didn’t really know if you were a dinosaurs kind of person or if you were too old for that stuff, so I didn’t want to presume.” She ran a hand through her hair as she pulled into her parking spot at the apartment complex. 

What he said surprised her, “I like ships. Pirates and stuff. You know, like in the movies.” 

Emma laughed, “Well, I think you’ll like the faire, then.”

“Faire?”

“We do a fantasy faire. I’m Peter Pan and my fr-costar is Captain Hook. We have a show next week.” 

His delight was evident, “That’s so cool!”

And as she led him into the apartment and showed him the loft space that was to be his room, he was even more enthusiastic. 

_Killian would like him,_ Emma thought to herself, unwittingly wishing he were here. 

“We can get you some sort of divider so you can have a little privacy.” Henry nodded absently and climbed down the ladder. 

“I’ve never had my own room before. Thank you,” He hesitated, “Mom.” He wrapped his arms around her waist in a hug and Emma blinked back tears.

“It was nothing, kid.”


	10. The Daily Grind

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma adjusts to her new life.

The days of the Storybrooke Fairy Tale Faire went quicker than she could have imagined. Her days were spent working and helping out with shows and her nights were filled with pillow forts and hot cocoa with cinnamon, the way she and her son both liked it. 

While of course she introduced Henry to everyone in the faire, he took a particular shine to Killian. Emma and Killian grew farther and farther away while Henry grew closer to the faux-pirate. She thought she could make up with Killian by showing him that she was okay with him being a part of Henry’s life, but Killian just let the kid hang out with him. He even taught Henry to play the lute when Emma was on a case all day. 

Half of her was grateful and the other half resented that she wouldn’t fill a place in his life anymore. Sometimes when they did talk during intermission of their show, or when she was dropping off Henry for a day at the faire before work, she felt like they were divorced parents still trying to keep their kid happy. It was an odd dynamic they had struck up, somewhere between too friendly and conversations filled with silences of them staring at each other. 

Henry caught on, reading her as easily as she read most people, asking her at breakfast, “Did you and Killian used to date or something?”

Emma nearly spit out her coffee, “Where did you get that idea?”

“One of my foster moms had a boyfriend, but a month before I left they broke up. He would still come around to spend time with the kids staying there, because they were almost like his too, but their conversations were a lot like yours with Killian.”

She gulped, _This kid is way too insightful._

“We didn’t date… We just said some things that we couldn’t come back from, as friends.” Unbidden, the feeling of his breath brushing against her lips and his hand on the back of her neck came back to her, forcing her to take a hurried gulp of coffee to hide the flush crawling up her cheeks.

“Well, maybe you guys should talk. And, you know, actually say words. Not just stare at each other.”

Shaking her head brusquely, Emma diverted his attention, “Do you want chocolate chips or blueberries?” She pulled out the pancake mix.

Henry didn’t press the subject and she got to making pancakes with a sigh of relief. 

Of course, that didn’t stop Henry from talking to Killian about similar topics. Killian approached her during intermission as she was wiping the sweat from her brow, “Your lad seems determined to rekindle our friendship. Told me to talk to you.”

“Couldn’t say no?” She quipped, heart in her throat and breath coming out in hurried, shallow puffs. Killian’s eyes bore into hers and Emma ached to take back the things she had said. He wasn’t violent just because he wanted revenge. And it’s not as if he would ever hurt Henry.

“No, I really couldn’t, Swan.”

Somehow, she didn’t think it was because of Henry, given the look in his eyes.

Emma shook off the wish that they could be more than friends, remembering Henry and the lack of space in her life, “Okay. Let’s not over-complicate this with drama. We’re friends. Good friends. We don’t need to be in each other’s personal business, right?”

He nodded, “Right. Didn’t we try that, though?”

She sighed, “Well, it had better work for once. I don’t like not talking to you.”

“And I don’t like brassing you off more than is necessary.”

Laughter bubbled out of her throat and soon they were just as they had always been, happy to joke with each other, the past of almost-kisses and gun residue hidden under the surface. When Henry met them after the show, he smiled and nodded proudly at the eased tension. 

But before long, the faire was over, and Killian was on his way back to New York with a tight hug from Henry, who then left them alone to talk. 

“Take care of yourself, Killian,” Emma said, biting back the emotion welling up in her throat.

“This whole not seeing you or Henry for months thing seems a lot less pleasant now that I’m leaving,” Killian looked down at his hands, cheeks ruddy with what she hoped was a blush but knew was probably the August heat. 

“Yeah, the kid will miss you too. I think he likes having a pirate scoundrel around to get into trouble with.”

“But of course, you’ll be glad to be rid of me,” He half-joked, eyes meeting hers with a shadow of doubt.

Emma shook her head vigorously before she knew what she was doing, “No. I won’t.”

The surprise in Killian’s eyes wounded her, but she knew it was well deserved. She played her care close to the vest, only showing outward love for her parents and Henry, even though Killian was as much a part of her family as any of them.

“Maybe I’ll come up for Christmas,” Killian ventured with a note of hope in his voice.

She smiled hesitantly, “Henry would love that.” 

_I would love that._

“I should go.” Killian turned to his cab reluctantly, before Emma grabbed his arm and wrapped him in her embrace. Shock froze his hand and prosthetic in the air, but soon enough they settled on the small of her back as she gripped his collar and tucked her face into his neck. 

“Don’t do anything stupid,” She whispered in his ear, brushing her lips across his cheek as an afterthought. Embarrassed, she broke the embrace and handed him his bag from the ground. Before she could let herself do anything else that she couldn’t come back from, she retreated to the door of her apartment complex.

Killian shouted as he was about to get in the taxi, “I’ll Skype you and the lad when I get to New York.”

“You’d better,” She hollered back, face flushed and eyes watery. Emma couldn’t help but notice that he said New York and not home; her heart beat faster at the thought that maybe she and Henry were becoming more like home to him.

She took the stairs up to the apartment, looking forward to spending her Sunday with her son, and a little saddened that Killian’s flight had been so early. 

Then, of course, her work phone decided to ring the moment she got into the apartment.

“Miss Nolan?” Emma sighed at the name. Maybe she should just change it to Swan. She never told Killian, but that was the name—well, alias—she had used when she was pregnant with Henry. 

“Yes, Regina?”

“It seems there’s a lone wolf in town. Hood wants you to work with him to tranquilize and get the thing to the mountains where there’s reports of a pack.” A lone wolf was always more dangerous than one with a pack, and usually more hungry, more willing to attack humans. 

“Is it endangered?” Last time they had a wild animal, a bear, she and the local forest ranger, Robin Hood, had just taken it down with a shotgun. She was a better shot than him, but he knew the forest like the back of his hand. They made a good team. 

“No, but they have the right tranquilizer dosages ready. And there’s no reason to put it down.” 

Emma raised an eyebrow. Either Regina was going soft, or Robin lied to Regina to protect the animal. Or both. “So no one’s been attacked?”

“Ruby saw it walking through town as she was closing the diner and called Robin.”

She nodded, and remembered Regina couldn’t see her, “So it’s not afraid of people.” Not a good thing. 

“It seems so. I’m going to call your father and have him prepare some food for it so that it won’t attack either of you before you get it to the pack’s territory.” David was the local Vet tech and everyone knew Sunday was Doc’s day off.

“Got it. I’m on my way…” Emma trailed off, hearing Henry humming from his loft, “Regina? Do you know anyone who could watch Henry?” Normally she would leave him with Killian or her parents, but Killian was gone, David was working, and Mary Margaret was doing professional development with the regional school a few towns over.

“I could, if you wanted. I’m watching Roland for Robin, anyways.” Emma bit back a laugh. Regina and Robin were the most obvious not-a-couple-but-totally-a-couple in Storybrooke. The mayor had a thing with the old sheriff, Graham, but it was clear by the gossips that it had been a no-strings-attached situation. When Graham had left for a better position, Regina was barely bothered by it. That’s when Robin and his son Roland had showed up to fill the much-needed position of a forest ranger, especially since the rent-a-cop playing sheriff had had no idea how to shoot, much less take care of the wild animals that often found their way into their little hamlet. 

“As long as you don’t give him so much ice cream that he gets wound up, sure.”

Regina chuckled, “I’ll be sure to portion his ice cream appropriately.”

Emma smiled to herself, glad to have the woman’s help, especially since Regina had been babysitting Roland long enough to know how to handle the caprice of young boys.

“I’d love that, thank you.”

“Just drop him off at my office before you head out, Emma.”

It was the first time the esteemed Mayor had called her by her first name, and Emma found herself smiling, “Will do. And thanks again, Regina.”

“Anytime,” She said, and Emma was certain that Regina meant it.

Henry was barely disappointed when Emma informed him that her day off had turned into a day of work, excited at the prospect of her relocating a wolf and him spending time with a kid around his age.

_Maybe he missed the other kids from foster homes,_ Emma thought, worried that she had maybe cut him off from interacting with people his age over the summer, before belatedly realizing that he was going to school in a week anyways, and wouldn’t have a problem finding kids to hang out with then.

She dropped him off at Regina’s without issue, and went to meet Robin at the cabin that served as a ranger’s station, yellow bug trundling down the barely-paved road.

He greeted her with a lift of his eyebrows then she walked in, his teeth busy holding a tranquilizer dart as he attempted to load the gun. 

Emma grabbed the second tranq gun from the small weapons cage and got to loading it. Robin breached the silence once he had his set, “How did your son take you missing your day off?”

She and Robin worked with each other enough that they were friends. Most of her job was paperwork and domestic complaints. He acted as Emma’s deputy when she needed back up, and she as his assistant park ranger when there were wild animal complaints. It kept them both safe and let them get back to their sons more quickly at the end of the day. 

“Better than I really would like. I think he’s getting over the clingy stage. Soon enough I’ll never get any time with him.”

Robin nodded in his usual understanding way, “Roland never wanted to go to school after his mother had died, almost like he was afraid he’d lose me too. Once we got adjusted here, though, he’s been a lot better about spending time away.”

“You mean spending time with Regina?” Emma asked with a wiggle of her eyebrows. They were walking out of the cabin and he pushed his shoulder into hers, scoffing.

“He likes her. She’s good to him, and I think taking care of him is good for her.”

“Yeah, she offered to watch Henry too. I think she’s realizing that there’s more to life than her job.” 

Robin got a wistful look in his eyes as they followed tracks the wolf had made from town, “When I first met her, she seemed like she would be a terror to work with. Then I was desperate for a sitter that time with the bear, and look at her now. Volunteering to take care of your kid, too.”

“Maybe you and Roland should stick around,” Emma said, not thinking of how Killian had made her better with people, from her parents to her fellow townspeople. And how she couldn’t let herself close up just because he was hundreds of miles away.

“You’re sure you’re not asking the wrong person from the UK? I’m fairly certain there’s another bloke. What’s his name again? William? No, Killia-”

She shoved him lightly with her shoulder, mocking his action from earlier, “Okay, okay. I get it.” Emma hid the flush in her cheeks, before hearing rustling. Her hand stayed him from moving, and she put a finger to her lips, motioning for him to be silent.

They brought up their guns and moved quietly over the terrain to where the noise came from. 

As soon as they saw the wolf, Emma lined up her shot and tranquilized the thing. She huffed out her surprise that it hadn’t attacked them yet. It slumped over a moment later, and Robin moved to watch it, gun raised. She asked, “You got this?” and went to get Robin’s truck when he tossed her his keys. He had a big cage on the back of it for just this kind of situation.

_That was a hell of a lot easier than the bear._

Even getting it in the truck was pretty feasible, and they were able to drive an hour up route 95 and then west away from the coast in order to deposit the wolf away from civilization and near to a pack. It had woken up and eaten the meat they left for it in the cage, but the ride had left it agitated. They opened the cage with a hooked stick from the roof of the truck and scrambled back into the car as the wolf got out of the cage, driving away with little more than a glance back.

Of course, when she told Henry, about it, her story was a little exaggerated. Emma couldn’t help but want her kid to think she was cool. Luckily, he had enjoyed his time with Regina, and even though Emma was happy to have David and Mary Margaret as his babysitters, she never hesitated to call Regina when they were otherwise occupied and she couldn’t watch him herself. Oftentimes, that was when Robin needed a babysitter as well, and she was glad to see the two kids become friends, even though Henry was a little older than Roland.

Summer faded to fall more quickly than she could have imagined, filling her days with domestic disturbances typical of the oncoming holiday season. Small towns were nosy, however, and most people who got a house call from her made sure not to yell loud enough to get another. Emma was just lucky that her parents lived far enough away from everyone else that she never received any calls about them.

Not that they really fought much, but no couple was perfect. 

Henry had weekly Skype calls with Killian. It turned out Henry was a voracious reader, so he and Killian had sort of a book club going. Emma would join in closer to every other week, when they would talk about non-literature things, though Emma did get pulled into a discussion about religious symbolism in Lord of the Flies that one time. 

One time, Henry was at a sleepover with some of the boys from his school over Thanksgiving break. Emma got a glass of wine and sat in front of the computer, prepared for Killian to try to bow out of the Skype conversation once she told him Henry was missing it. 

She wasn’t prepared for Killian to not mention Henry’s absence. She had a niggling suspicion that Henry had warned him and asked him to carry on the conversation regardless. Maybe Emma should have been better about establishing boundaries, because Henry always wanted them to talk more, getting unnecessary glasses of water and going to the bathroom whenever he could during the shared Skype conversations. He wanted them to be better friends. Or more than friends. And Emma could understand that. Kids want a mom and a dad. But that wasn’t her and Killian. Not with their mountain of issues. 

“So how was your Thanksgiving?” Emma asked, genuinely curious. Hers had been good, but even her parents were asking if Killian was going to come up for Christmas. It seemed they had adopted him into the family, forgetting that he lived too damn far away for that.

“Not bad. I got some grading done. Watched football.”

“American football?” Emma was surprised, her lips quirking in a smile. 

“No, real football,” He deadpanned.

“Oh, of course. I should have known.” She was still grinning like an idiot, so she sipped at her wine to get her face to stop doing that.

“No one to spend it with?”

Killian looked down, “Nah. It’s more of an American thing, anyways. Just feels like a few days off to me.”

“What about Christmas?”

“Definitely not an American thing.” 

Emma rolled her eyes, “You know what I mean.”

“What, do you miss me?”

_Yes._ “No, Henry does, though. My parents even asked if you were going to come up for Christmas break.”

Killian remained silent, Emma awkwardly tried to rescind the offer, looking at her hands, “I mean, you don’t have to come up if you want, it’s just that you’d definitely be welcome if you did and I know that Christmas is a hard time for you considering what happened and…” Emma’s eyes went wide, realizing what she had just said, “I’m going to shut up now.”

“I miss you too, Emma.”

_God, what is it about me doing this whole being open about my emotions thing that makes people want to call me by my first name what do I do?_ Her head was screaming and her lips weren’t moving. She was about to form her thoughts into words, before she was interrupted.

There was a knock on the door. Emma threw her head back and groaned, “Hang on a minute.” She minimized the window and got up with a sigh, opening the door and expecting it to be something about work. But it was Gold.

“Hello Miss Nolan. I’ve come to collect a favor.”

“I only owe you one.”

He sighed and made to enter her apartment. She bodily blocked the door, “Whatever you can say, say it out here.”

Gold lifted an eyebrow, looking at her for a moment before continuing, “As I said, I’m here to collect a favor. I need you to go to this address sometime before Christmas.” He handed her a slip of paper with a NYC address for a coffee shop, she gave him a quizzical look, “My son works there. I need you to give him this letter,” He handed her a thick envelope, “And make sure he reads it. If he deigns to give me a response, please return it to me.”

“I’m the sheriff, I can’t just go running off to do your errands.”

“You have vacation time. So go on vacation. You can even visit your attempted murderer of a lover.”

“He’s not my lover.”

“Well, he’s certainly something. You should probably get back to your conversation with him, anyways.” He motioned to the open laptop on the kitchen island. Her desktop background was the only thing showing. 

Emma’s mouth opened and closed like a fish out of water before she finally formed the response, “How do you know when Henry and I talk to him?”

Gold smirked slowly, like a crocodile with its eyes on its prey, “I know quite a bit, dearie. Just like I know you won’t come after me after you’ve done this favor for me.”

“And why’s that? You’re a criminal and I’m the sheriff.” She set her jaw and didn’t back down from his threatening gaze.

“Because I will make Killian Jones disappear in the most painful of ways. And we both know,” He paused, making his real meaning clear, “ _Henry_ wouldn’t like that.” 

Emma didn’t respond to threats well, “I’ll do your favor. I’ll get this to your son. But threaten my family again and I will end you.”

She shut the door on his face, hearing him chuckle through the door, “I didn’t threaten Henry, dearie.”

There was noise coming from her computer, “Emma? Love? Did I just hear what I think I heard?”

_Shit._

She maximized Skype and sat down, pouring herself another glass of wine.

“Yeah.” Killian’s eyes were wide and out of the corner of her eye she could see his fist clenched on the edge of the camera’s view. Emma was probably red from anger and a little too much wine, but she couldn’t bring herself to care.

“Well, I guess you’ve got an excuse to come see me,” Killian joked, making light of the situation and running his hand through his hair shakily. 

“Yeah. Henry and I can take a vacation. Maybe stay until Christmas morning and then drive back up and do Christmas evening at home.” Her hand was shaking around her wine glass. She put it down and tried to calm herself down. 

“If you want, we can leave the twenty-third, and I’ll come up with you. I’m not sure I want to be in the apartment Christmas morning, anyways. I’ll get a bus back later.”

“We’ll come up the eighteenth, then. It’ll give Henry sightseeing time and plenty of time for me to fulfill Gold’s favor. I think Henry’s school ends that day anyways.” Her thoughts were racing with all the things she needed to do, and the extra expense of a New York trip when she was just getting her life straight, “I need to book a hotel.” 

“No you don’t,” Killian interrupted her, “I have a guest room, well more of a guest closet really, and a pull-out. It’ll be impossible to get a decent hotel for that time anyways.” Emma knew he was right. And Henry would love spending five days nonstop with Killian.

Emma wouldn’t mind it either.

“I’d really appreciate it. And don’t worry; you can have our pull-out when you come up here.”

“I’m flattered, Swan.”

She smiled sadly, her pulse having calmed down in her veins. “You know I’m going to find a way to get Gold for you, right?”

“I know, Swan,” Killian said with complete confidence, “But you don’t have to, not for me.”

“Yes, Killian, I do. I won’t let him threaten you like that, especially since I know he would act on it.”

“Swan, don’t be an idiot, you know very well that you can’t catch him. Not by legal means.”

“But—” 

“No buts, Emma. Just leave it alone.” 

Killian hung up. Emma hung her head and poured yet another glass of wine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Skype doesn't work when minimized, but it's such a pain in the ass to repeat stuff that just happened, so if you could suspend your disbelief, please, that would be helpful.


	11. New York, New York

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> December has arrived, along with Henry and Emma arriving at New York.

“Henry, slow down!” Emma picked up her pace to catch up with him, lugging her suitcase behind her as Henry raced to meet Killian at the apartment entrance. 

“Lad, listen to your mother—oof!” Killian was slammed into by a ten year old that at spent too many hours in the car and too many months away from his—what? Father figure? Friend? Emma didn’t know what, but she knew she didn’t want her car towed.

“Jones!”

“Right,” He extricated himself from the kid’s embrace and handed her a laminated paper, “Here’s the parking permit.” He grabbed her bags with his good hand and ruffled Henry’s hair with his prosthetic. Emma smiled gratefully and ran back outside to put it on the dashboard of the bug, grabbing the trash from their road snacks and Henry’s forgotten book as she went.

Killian and Henry were just at the door of the third floor apartment, being accosted by someone whom Emma could only assume was an elderly neighbor.

“I didn’t know you had a son, dear. How come you didn’t tell me?”

“No, Mrs. Haversham, he’s the son of a friend.” 

The aged woman saw Emma coming and gave an indignant huff, “Friend, huh? And I thought what we had was special.” 

She walked back towards her apartment, thwacking Killian in the calf with her cane on her way by, making Emma let out a laugh. “She’s got spunk.”

“She’s got something, alright,” Killian breathed, letting Henry go into the apartment before him. 

“Didn’t know you were still into older women.”

“Very witty, Swan.”

Emma smirked and grabbed her bag from the floor, “I thought so.”

“So where’s the guest room?” Henry asked, still bouncing up and down from the energy he couldn’t let out in the car. Emma knew he would be conked out in another hour. The sun had set during the last hour of their drive, and she knew she had to get a real meal into the kid before he used up all his energy.

“Down the hall, on the right. You can kit up in there.” 

Henry nodded his jerky child’s nod, one of someone still growing into their body, before scuttling off to explore the room. Emma dragged her stuff over to the couch, “Your back is going to be sorry that you picked the pull-out.”

“Henry’s probably shared enough of these in his day. He shouldn’t have to. Ever again.”

Killian nodded, “Do you two want dinner?”

“Yes!” Henry shouted from across the apartment. She and Killian both broke into a laugh.

Killian was washing vegetables and Emma pulled out a cutting board. 

“Need a hand?”

“Har har.”

Emma gave him her usual look, “Not what I meant,” she said in a low voice.

“Love, it’s been a year. I can take a joke.”

She elbowed him and started dicing the tomatoes, “Whatever you say, stumpy.”

Killian huffed out a laugh and they went back to their dynamic, him washing and her cutting. Henry rambled in a little while later, stealing a mushroom off the cutting board before Emma put it into the pan with the other vegetables Killian was sautéing. 

“What are we eating?” Henry asked, mouth half-full.

“Pasta primavera,” He swatted Henry’s hand from the remaining vegetables, “Don’t spoil your dinner, son.”

Emma froze from where she was washing the knife, not long enough for the bickering boys to notice, but long enough that she had to evaluate exactly why there was a warm feeling spreading through her chest and why it wasn’t strange to her that Killian would be the one person she could trust with her son. Because no matter how much he and Emma screwed up in their normal lives, Killian would do anything for her son, just like her.

_So I guess he’s just as right to call him that._

They ate dinner at the small apartment’s built-in version of a breakfast nook, Killian and Henry exchanging opinions about Michael Crichton books and Emma silently hoping that Henry hadn’t read the inappropriate ones, and still trusting Killian to lead Henry away from them.

Henry stumbled off to bed half an hour after dinner, bemoaning the fact that he hadn’t slept on the ride over. Emma gave him a kiss on his forehead and he scrubbed at his eyes once more before shuffling off to sleep. 

She sprawled on the couch next to Killian, exhausted but not yet ready to hit the hay, “How’ve you been?”

“You’ve talked to me nearly every other week for the past few months. You know how I’ve been, love.” Emma saw him shifting his not-hand. Part of her wanted to grasp it, and another part of her wished it had never been cut off. It was selfish, but she just wished Gold had killed Milah and run off, rather than torturing Killian with the daily reminder of what had happened to him. 

Torturing Emma with the reminder that she should have realized her feelings for Killian a lot sooner. Before he could only touch her with one hand. 

“Only outwardly. And you’re always chipper when Henry’s around.”

“What can I say, lass? He’s a joy to be around. Clearly not your genetics at play.”

Emma punched him in the arm.

“You wanna rephrase that?”

Killian ached an eyebrow and Emma knew he wouldn’t, “Well, I think my genetics go a long way towards him liking you, so maybe you should thank me for that.”

“Is that a roundabout way of admitting that you like me?” She shrugged and leaned against the back of the couch. 

“So you have any alcohol here?”

“Well, yes, but all in very tall people places. No bottles strewn about the apartment, which was the more usual state of things.”

“Was?” Killian got up, supposedly to fetch some of that alcohol, and coming back with two glasses and a bottle of either hard cider or beer. It turned out to be a crisp cider and Emma was pleased with the tingle it left on her tongue and the coolness of the tumbler in her hand. Killian winced—more at her question than anything—and took a sip.

“Well, we both know that I took to drinking after what happened,” Emma nodded, sitting up and curling her legs together Indian style, “But I decided that I should probably slow down before I developed yet another problem.”

“And when did you decide this?”

Killian bit his lip, practically giving the answer away. _When I met your son._

“Henry cares a lot about you too.” Killian averted his eyes, taking a swallow of his cider.

“And you?”

“Didn’t I just say the kid got it from me?” She nudged him with her foot until she got a smile out of him.

“The brooding’s only gonna be cute for so long, Jones.”

He put his good hand on her socked foot, rubbing deep circles into the tired flesh with the pad of his thumb, already having placed his tumbler on the side table, “Is it cute now?” The word sounded foreign in his mouth.

“Only if you keep giving me a foot massage,” Emma said, extending her feet into his lap and taking a sip of her own drink.

“Well, then who am I not to oblige?” He chuckled and put his very talented one hand to good use. 

“How’s class been?

“Same old same old. They still don’t grasp Milton.”

“Can anyone really?”

He glared her words down with laser precision. She put her hands up—one still half-wrapped around her glass—as if he were the literary police. 

“Perhaps you can just massage your own feet if you think so little of one of the greatest epics of all time,” Emma rolled her eyes, prepared to take back her feet, but Killian didn’t stop, moving his hand to her other foot.

“You do realize that threats don’t work when you don’t at least pretend to act on them.”

Killian stayed silent, pensively running his thumb over the arches of her foot, “What’s on the agenda for tomorrow?”

“Probably let you and Henry do something while I go do my final favor for He Who Shall Not Be Named.”

“What’s the address?” Killian asked, brows creased, forming an angry V in between them.

She reached behind her into her back pocket, pulling out a crumpled note in Gold’s elegant script.

“This is the coffee shop I go to…” Killian trailed off, squinting in the lamplight.

“I thought you just drank tea.” 

He rolls his eyes and throws the address back at her, “I’ll go with you; there’s some statues and a park nearby; Henry and I can wander while you do the imp’s bidding.”

“Imp, huh?”

“Better than Voldemort.”

Emma giggled, finishing her cider, the warmth in her belly contrasting the crisp and cold aftertaste of the hard cider down her throat, “Sure.”

Killian yawned and got up, placing her feet back down on the couch, “I’m knackered, let’s get this pull out—well, out.”

A few minutes later, as Emma was cocooning herself in blankets from the spare room, she wondered why Killian wanted to go with her to meet this fabled son of Mr. Gold’s and toyed with the idea of it being to protect her. But a more logical part of her knew he wanted to see Milah’s son, and understood the compulsion, especially after her debacle with trying to know about her own son.

Before she knew the thoughts were quieted in her head and she was drifting off to the sounds of the city outside.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry it's a short chapter, but now I'm finally getting to plot point thingies so stuff will happen soon.


	12. Coffee and Bailey's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Emma fulfills her obligation to Gold, but finds a little more than she bargained for in the process.

They hit the coffee shop in the morning. The atmosphere in “Tallahassee Coffee House” was cozy, decorated with rich browns and deep auburns. Emma could barely believe that Killian came here. It reminded her of the places in Oregon, a west coast vibe that Starbucks never quite got down.

Henry excitedly ran up to the counter, ordering a hot chocolate and pastry from a pretty dark woman who interacted with him easily. 

“You guys have got a cute kid, there. How old is he?” She asked sweetly as she rang up their order.

“Oh, thanks. He’s ten.” Emma didn’t bother to correct the barista in her assumption that he was Killian’s kid. It made it easier not to answer questions.

“Emma?” The familiar voice sent a chill up her spine, freezing her in place, her hand half in her purse.

She looked up, choking out his name, “Neal?”

Her throat was raw with something tasting like the anger she had felt in the months after her expulsion, “Killian, can you take Henry?” The woman behind the counter—her nametag said Tamara—put their order on the counter, which Henry was already grabbing. Emma and Neal were still caught in a staring contest, both frozen. 

“Mom?” Henry gave her a worried look. Emma turned around, coughing to clear her throat, knowing she should give them an explanation. 

“Who is he?” Killian was worried too. Emma would have been worried if she could get over the shock, but her heart was beating too fast and she was angry, angrier than she had been in a long time. She needed him to get Henry out of there.

“Portland,” she forced out before turning away. 

Killian grimaced tightly and couldn’t help but glare at the asshole who left Emma high and dry, “I’ll take Henry to the park.” The little bell chimed cheerily on the door and she knew she could finally let it out.

Neal looked scared. Emma thought that he should be; she got in his space, “You stole my education from under me and you’re not even in music anymore? You work at a coffee shop!”

“Emma—I’m sorry. There was a lot going on.”

“That doesn’t mean you cheat off someone’s essay and then get them thrown out of school.”

“Emma, you just lost your scholarship, my dad said…” Neal didn’t say what his dad said. Emma wasn’t paying attention.

“You think my parents could have paid for that? Or that I could have kept doing school, you know, since I was a bit busy being pregnant.”

“Wait, that’s my kid?” 

“No. He’s my kid. I’m the one who gave up everything so that he could live a good life.”

“I get that, but he’s…”

She was blinking back tears, but she was livid, yelling, not concerned about customers. Tamara was ushering them out and putting the closed sign on the door. She hadn’t noticed the wedding ring on her finger, or on Neal’s. She didn’t hate him for finding someone, but his happiness only increased her anger tenfold.

“No. You don’t get it. I gave him up so that he could have a better life and he was in the system so I got him out and, you know, when he was born, after I went through screaming hours of labor I didn’t even hold him because you made me feel so worthless that I knew I couldn’t take care of…” Her face crumples and she backs away, breathing heavily into her the back of her hand to keep herself from sobbing.

“Shit. Emma. God, you don’t know how sorry I am.”

The coffee shop was silent for a minute while she tried to control her breathing, tried not to hyperventilate. A minute later, she was calm, throat raw.

“Tell me why.” It came out sounding like it had gone through a meat grinder, but it got the point across.

“My dad,” Emma finally put the pieces together as Neal spoke, _Mr. Gold_ , “He wanted me to go to music school. I was good at it in high school, I got into Portland by the skin of my teeth and could barely stay afloat. I really think that I loved you… but your computer was right there and you always got the best grades and I knew I couldn’t pass the class without it and that my dad would be disappointed if I failed another class. So I stole it. And then I didn’t go looking into it when my dad said you lost your scholarship because he said he took care of it and I was a coward. Then the next semester I failed two classes and I was unhappy and I finally stood up to my dad. A couple years later I met Tamara, and we opened up this shop, and I like it here. I’m happy here.”

Emma was speechless. She had never thought that Neal had a reason to plagiarize her other than simple cruelty. It didn’t make her less angry over Henry, but she understood why he would be afraid to stand up to Mr. Gold. Tamara spoke up for him, “Neal has been doing really well here. Without his dad around. He told me about how his father forced him into school, and I know what he did was wrong, but he was making the best out of a bad situation.”

“I’m sorry that I let you get caught up in it, Emma, you gotta know that.”

She gave a stilted nod, and then remembered the letter in her coat pocket, pulling it out with shaking hands, “I owed your father a favor. He made me come here to give this to you. But I think… he hates Killian. He knew Killian and Henry are close and wanted me to find you. Because he has to know that Henry’s your kid; he’s the one who put the adoption through, I mean, he has to. And he wants to replace Killian with you and I’m not going to let that happen because he’s been really good to Henry… And you have to know that Gold killed your mom. And cut off my friend’s hand. He’s dangerous. And if I can put him in jail, I’m going to, regardless of the fact that he’s related to Henry.”

“Woah,” Neal breathed out, still managing to take the letter, where it trembled in his hands.

“Okay, now I’m confused,” said Tamara from where she was wiping one of the small tables. Emma smiled at her.

“It’s all a bit of a tangle.” 

“So…” Neal looked at her, squinting, “Are you saying you don’t want Henry to know that I’m his dad? Because I want to get to know him. I don’t want to take him from you, but I want to know him. I mean, he’s my kid.”

“You can get to know him… I want you to know him! I just… I know that this is one of Gold’s plans; his last ditch attempt at ruining everything Killian has. And Henry cares about him. They Skype every week for Christ’s sake.”

“Why does my dad want to ruin…? Oh.” Neal realized in the middle of his sentence. He must have known about his mothers’ cheating habits.

“Yeah.”

“So he was sleeping with my mother and now you’re dating him?”

“No,” Emma said calmly, expecting the accusation, “We’re just friends. But Henry loves him like a father. And they’re good for each other. That’s not to say you can’t be Henry’s dad as well. I just… I won’t let Gold take anything else from him.”

Neal nodded, still clearly in shock from the sheer amount of information. Tamara wound her way around the counter and rubbed a hand over his back, comforting. They gave each other small smiles, and Emma knew that she had an ally with Tamara.

She held out her hand, “I’m Emma. It’s great to meet you.”

“Tamara.” They shook hands briefly, “It’s nice to meet you too.”

“And it will be even nicer to meet Henry.”

“Right. Do you want me to call them back here or do you need a minute?” She asked Neal, giving him a sympathetic smile.

“Maybe we should figure out a plan for this whole… me meeting my son thing.” 

“How about Killian and I stick around and we’ll let you guys get to know each other, but with us there to keep everyone comfortable. We’ll be here until the twenty-third. So, if this goes well, you guys can have some father-son time before we leave. And of course,” She turned to Tamara, “I think he already likes you.” Her laugh was as kind as she seemed. She didn’t even seem fazed by the whole husband-having-a-kid thing. But she was probably as good as Emma usually was about keeping her cool.

“Well, I think we’ll be closed for the day,” Tamara declared, pulling off her apron and hanging it on a hook behind the counter. Emma chuckled and pulled out her phone, dialing Killian’s number.

“Hey.”

“Hello, love. So, do I need to beat anyone up, or have you taken care of that already?”

“What? Would you attack him with your hook?” She couldn’t help but giggle into the receiver at the image.

“Might do.”

“Well, maybe you should bring Henry around. Gold’s son is… the same guy I told you about in Portland. But we’ve resolved our issues. And they deserve to get to know each other.”

“Aye aye captain.” Killian hung up fairly abruptly. Emma sighed, knowing that he was probably scared of losing his relationship with Henry. But she would amend that assumption once he got back to the coffee shop.

“So you guys opened this place?”

“Yeah. It’s great. We usually have more staff, but we take Saturday mornings together. It’s a tradition.”

“Well, it sure was convenient.” They all shared a laugh, and not a moment too soon, Killian and Henry made their way into the shop, cold and red-nosed. 

Clearly Henry had already finished his hot chocolate, because he was wired, “Mom, Killian and I had a snowball fight and I totally nailed him and he fell down and everything.” He whispered, though not very quietly, “He’s really bad at making snowballs!”

“You try making a snowball with one real hand, lad, and we’ll see how good you are.”

“You boys done fighting?” The two nod, sharing conspiratorial shit-eating grins.

“Alright, Henry, Killian, this is Neal and Tamara.” He obediently shook their hands, as did Killian, though Henry glanced back at Emma with curiosity. 

“Neal and I dated back in college. Ten years ago.” Henry’s eyes widened in recognition.

“So you’re my real dad?”

“Yeah, kid, it seems like.”

Henry gave him an appraising look, “Cool.”

“And you’re his wife?” Henry caught on quick, as Tamara nodded, “I never thought I’d have one set of parents, much less two,” He said almost to himself.

 _It must be a foster kid’s dream come true._ Emma thought.

“So, Henry, if you want to get to know Neal and Tamara, Killian and I are gonna be right here. I’ll even buy you another hot chocolate.” Emma had finally retrieved her lukewarm latte from the counter while they were waiting for Killian, but Tamara fussed and made her a new one. Once Henry nodded excitedly at the prospect of more sweets, she was to the rescue again, saying it was on the house.

“Hey, do you like cinnamon in your cocoa?”

“Yep.” Neal looked over at her with a smile that said _Definitely your kid._

“Tam, would you please put some cinnamon in that?”

“Sure thing, honey!”

Neal and Henry settled by a table close to the counter, where Tamara was finishing Henry’s drink with far too much whipped cream. Killian and Emma took a table by the window, where Killian kept stealing sips of her latte and she kept pretending to look away.

She heard Henry’s laughter from the front of the shop and found herself not worrying about if father and son would get along. They would probably be thick as thieves in ten minutes.

“You know that Gold knew, right?”

Killian nodded tightly, playing with the cardboard cup sleeve around her drink. 

“I told Neal and Tamara about Gold killing Milah, and taking your hand.”

“Did you tell him I was having an affair with his mother?” Killian asked with a smirk that was more play-acting than real gloating.

“He worked it out for himself. I don’t think it was a trait of his mother’s that he was unaware of.”

“You just used a double negative and ended a sentence with a preposition. You break my heart.” Killian mockingly put his prosthesis on his chest. She elbowed him, but said nothing.

“Henry has better grammar than you,” He chastised her.

“That’s because Henry spends too much time with you,” She sipped at her drink, trying not to discern if she was placing her lips where Killian had been, “I don’t know where this whole interest in reading thing came from, given his genetics.”

“Maybe I’m rubbing off on him,” Killian said with a small smile, rubbing his thumb over his lips absently.

She tried not to stare at his lips, coughing and looking down at her lap, “And I’m glad you are. And I want you to keep doing so. Because you’re good for him.”

Killian looked down at his fake hand, biting the inside of his cheek, “What about Neal?” 

Putting her hand under Killian’s jaw, she forced him to look at her, “He just met the kid. Henry loves you. Yes, it’s great that he’s meeting his real dad and I hope they have a good relationship. But I didn’t tell Neal when I was pregnant for a reason. I chose you to be in my son’s life. And he wants you there. Neal doesn’t change that.” She moved her hand to his cheek, caressing it gently and trying not to think about kissing the pout off his stupid face.

Emma had been having a lot of problems with that lately.

Killian put his hand over hers, kissing her knuckles and moving their hands to the table, where he continued to hold hers, “And I want you to know that I won’t let you or Henry down. Because I am honored that you would let me into his life after the heaping pile of bullshit that we waded through with Gold.”

“Heaping pile, huh?”

“Absolute shitstorm,” He agreed with grin. 

A few hours passed in that vein, and they all decided to go out for lunch before letting Neal and Tamara open their shop back up, with the promise of another few days of them all getting together, or Neal and Tamara taking Henry. The next day, they all went to the Statue of Liberty and Ellis Island together, resulting in many artsy pictures and some selfies that Emma would deny to the grave.

The third morning, Neal and Tamara had to deal with their shop, but they had arranged to take Henry for the night. In the morning, they did the Empire State Building, finding out that Killian hadn’t done any sightseeing in his time in New York. 

After Neal read his father’s letter, he decided that he and Tamara were going to come up to Storybrooke shortly after herself, Killian and Henry. Emma told them they were welcome to spend Christmas with her family, but they decided to do their normal Christmas with Tamara’s family before driving up.

That left Emma and Killian alone for the night. Instead of going out to dinner, they went grocery shopping, filling up Killian’s poorly stocked cupboards. They made chicken parmesan with eggplant and broccoli, a meal that left Emma full and content. Of course, that was when Emma went looking for liquor, because, as much as she liked Tamara and Neal, they were a disgustingly cute couple and Emma needed some serious alcohol if she was going to deal with them for another two days.

She found Bailey’s hidden in the back of the top shelf of the pantry and, with a triumphant laugh, snatched the eggnog they had just bought out of the fridge, glad that she had found something that would look spirited and not just like alcoholism. 

“What do you think you’re doing?”

“Drinking you dry,” She quipped as she poured a little less than half a glass of eggnog, filling the rest of the glass with Bailey’s.

“I don’t suppose you’re going to make me one of those?” Smirking, she pulled another glass from the cupboard and did the same with his. 

“Cheers.” Their glasses clinked together and she drank more than a gulp, relishing the burn in her throat. 

“So I take it you’re not drinking me dry out of Christmas spirit?”

“Says the guy who doesn’t even have Christmas lights.”

“I live in a flat with two windows,” He defended, rolling his eyes. They leaned on the counter and sipped at their drinks, before Emma cleared her throat.

“I’m drinking you dry because Neal and Tamara are…”

“Obnoxiously well adjusted?” She nodded. They took to Henry so easily, and didn’t even seem to fight, except in the cute way where they play-fought and quickly kissed and made up. 

“God, it’s disgusting.” 

“The nerve of them. They need to be more emotionally unstable.” 

“Maybe they’ll fight in front of Henry and he’ll like us again,” She whined, drinking more of her Bailey’s and realizing how quickly her glass was disappearing.

“He still likes us. They’re just new, and he wants to spend time with them while he can,” Killian draped an arm around her comfortingly and she put her head on his shoulder. She hummed under her breath in agreement, knowing that Henry was still a mama’s boy at heart. He’d probably come home from Neal and Tamara’s and run into her arms. To think of it, it was the first sleepover he’d had other than one with Robin's son and a few other boys for Halloween.

And that one probably didn’t even involve sleep, given the sheer amount of candy wrappers she had picked out of his pillowcase the day after.

“I like this,” Emma mumbled into Killian’s neck. Her glass was almost finished. Killian’s was about done too. 

“What’s this?” 

“Us.”

Killian extricated himself from her and she whined at the loss of warmth, the loss of him, “Love, don’t say that if you don’t mean it.” He settled himself at the counter opposite, his glass in the sink and eyes pleading with hers.

“What makes you say I don’t mean it?” She put down her own empty glass with an angry pout.

“Because you had to drink a damn glass of Bailey’s to say it!”

“No, I had to drink to stop pretending in my mind that we were a couple like Neal and Tamara and that I could kiss you at the top of the Statue of Liberty and that I could hold your hand and say cute shit at you like some sort of teenager in love and…” She looked up, finding Killian’s eyes fixed on her. 

“Love?”

He wasn’t just saying the pet name, she realized, gulping. She nodded at him, pretending it wasn’t a confirmation, and turned back to the counter. Her hands were shaking and she gripped the edge of the laminate, breathing heavily.

Emma heard Killian moving before she felt his warmth at her back, his arms wrapping around her waist, chin landing on her shoulder.

“Me too, Emma.”

She let out a breath she didn’t know she was holding and turned around in the circle of his arms. Their noses brushed and his breath was warm on her face, smelling of cinnamon eggnog and Irish cream. His nose nudged at hers, and she felt like just this minute meeting of skin on skin was too much and then she licked her lips, worried they had gone dry just from thinking about more than this. And then his mouth was on hers, soft and undemanding and she couldn’t help but let out a noise in the back of her throat as his hand moved to tangle in her hair. As they broke apart the chaste kiss, breath skating over each other’s faces, she thought she had never felt anything more perfect.


	13. Family

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A family is formed out of the ashes of a turbulent summer faire.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I lowered the rating because I didn't end up feeling the smut vibe and I ended up finishing! It's been a real ride, and this is the first fic I've finished in a while. If you're a Captain America fan, look out for my upcoming Stucky fic whose title is still in limbo.
> 
> Thanks a lot for all the comments and kudos and encouragement. 
> 
> I guess, that's all folks!

She sighed against his mouth, longing for another kiss, and Killian huffed a warm laugh against the curve of her cheek, pressing a soft kiss there and dragging his nose over her forehead, tender like a blessing. 

Emma gave a smile, fingers twining in his hair as she arched against the lines of his body, “What are we doing?” 

“Whatever we want to do, love.” 

“So…” She leaned up to kiss him with a grin that was two parts smug and one part hungry, “Whatever we want?”

“Mmhmm,” He hummed in the back of his throat, giving her a lingering kiss. She sucked in a breath when his hand skated under the hem of her sweater, hand rough and a little bit cold, a contrast to the heat steadily building in her belly. Her nails scraped at the back of his neck as his fingers stepped up the curve of her spine, touch delicate and finessed from years of playing piano. Emma bit his bottom lip and he inhaled sharply, crowding her against the counter, his hand and prosthetic moving to the curve of her bottom, then under her thighs, hefting her onto the countertop.

Breathing out a “Yes,” she shifted herself onto the counter, then pressed herself tightly back against him, seeking the friction of his jeans against hers by wrapping her legs around him, interlocking her ankles and wiggling until their bodies were flush, arms wrapped tightly around his neck as he pressed searing kisses into her mouth. His hand wandered the planes of her back, prosthetic cupped around her rear. As they broke apart to catch their breath, Emma’s hands strolled down his chest, pushing him away slightly to get under his the thin material of his t-shirt, tugging at the hem until he sighed and pulled his hand away from her to help her get it off him. Once that was on the kitchen floor, Emma was able to curl her fingers in the chest hair that had taunted her in the vests of his pirate costume. But then Killian started pulling off her sweater and she had to lift her arms to get herself out of the bulky ivory thing, cursing as the cold air hit her skin.

Looking at each other, each alike swollen lips and ragged breath and mussed hair and a pink flush spreading across almost equally bare chests, the air between them became charged with electricity. Their lips met, tearing with teeth and plundering with tongues, pressing heated skin together wherever they could, fingernails digging half-moons into the flesh of shoulders and the seams of spines.

Emma struggled for breath as Killian sucked a mark at the thin skin at the junction of her neck and collarbone, licking and kissing it tenderly once it bloomed red under his ministrations. She bit his earlobe, laving it wetly with her tongue after, the sound of his breathing heavy in her ear.

“Shall we…” She nipped at the tendon in his neck, grinding her hips into his, “Adjourn…” He was trying to be suave, but that wasn’t easy when Emma was nosing him to get more kisses, lips soft and eager for more.

“Fuck it,” He hefted her up, glad that she was such a willowy thing, “Bedroom,” She made a small noise in the back of her throat and wrapped herself more tightly around him as he made the short journey into the bedroom, lowering her onto the bed with care. 

And then she was pulling him down by his lapels and he was trying to balance on his elbows as she ravaged his mouth, body writhing underneath his, trying to get any friction and he laughed as she nibbled at his lip.

“Don’t make fun of me,” She pouted, wiggling her hips. He blew a raspberry to her neck in retaliation and she smacked his ass, the thwack ringing out in the empty bedroom.

“I’m not. It’s cute,” He mimicked the action back at her, worrying her lip between his teeth. Emma sighed underneath him, hands moving downward, pushing at his jeans. 

“No waiting ‘till the third date, love?” 

She rolled her eyes and flipped them over, shutting him up with lips on his neck and veering downwards.

“Oh.”

 

They awoke a tangle of legs, both sporting wild bedhead and shy grins. Emma didn’t admit that she woke up before Killian and watched the calm of his even breathing, face slack and content like she hadn’t seen it since Milah’s death. Killian didn’t admit that when he woke up he thought he was still asleep and dreaming her until she kissed him. 

“Hi,” Emma whispered against his lips.

“Hello yourself,” He responded, tangling a hand in her hair and drawing her body even closer to his. His comforter and fleece blanket kept them warm despite the winter chill, but they both knew Henry was coming back that morning and neither of them wanted to risk more enjoyable warming-up activities. 

After an equally pleasurable shared shower—they wouldn’t have wanted to waste water, well, until Emma kicked him out so she could shave—they ate a lazy breakfast of heated up frozen waffles. While Emma enjoyed cooking for Henry, she could barely make the effort at operating the toaster oven without coffee, which was probably why there was a nice cut on her leg from when she attempted to shave that morning.

Henry came along with Tamara and Neal around eleven and they made arrangements to do dinner that night. Neal didn’t sense the change in her and Killian’s relationship, but Tamara took one look between the two of them and telegraphed her approval to Emma via an outrageous eyebrow-lift and mega-watt grin. 

True to Killian’s prediction, Henry did miss them, despite enjoying his time with his father and Tamara; Emma supposed Tamara would be called his step-mother, but found the title bore some Disney villainy that didn’t fit the woman’s kindness.

They were only in New York for a day after that, and before they knew it, they were packing up the bug to head up for Christmas with her parents. That morning Henry had caught her sneaking out of Killian’s bedroom and pretend messing up the pull-out bed—his bed was a lot more comfortable—and let out an exclamation of “Finally!” that woke up Killian too. 

Six hours of driving turned into eight because of inclement snow, but they made it back to Emma’s apartment in one piece, lugging a sleeping Henry upstairs before unloading the car. 

“Lucky Neal and Tamara are going to miss the snow when they drive up,” Emma scowls at the weather on the TV, taking off her wet scarf and gloves. They had been stuck behind a plow for a while and—since Killian couldn’t drive in this country—it made her realize just how long the hours behind the wheel were. 

Before she could start unpacking, Killian was guiding her by the small of her back towards the couch, making her sit down, murmuring, “Relax, love.” And then his hand was running gently over the back of her neck, working out a tense knot lingering just under the knob of her spine with his thumb.

“Mmhmm,” She hummed a little, closing her eyes against his ministrations, taking them in quietly, grateful. _For having only one hand, he’s definitely not bad at this._

Emma thought about the next two days, the Christmas tree Henry had helped to set up in her parents’ house, the town Christmas Eve party at Granny’s. She’d be damned if Killian wasn’t comfortable at her side and treated well the entire time.

_Because, like it or not, I’m a part of this town and I want Killian to be a part of it with me._ Her shoulders tensed at the thought of telling her parents about her and Killian. They liked him, but the prospect was still daunting. 

“Swan, I can practically hear you thinking. What is it?” Emma sighed, leaning into the couch in an approximation of relaxation, still tense. Gingerly, Killian sat down next to her, hand taking hold of hers.

“I’m just worried about life, here, you know? How can we be together with Gold here, plotting to try and take away anything you have, and with you still living in New York, I don’t know how to protect you… when you’re here,” Emma finished lamely, jerking her hand away from him, putting up a wall when she really didn’t want to.

“You don’t have to protect me. I’ll be here every vacation and summer, staking my claim.” He didn’t mention the job applications already sent out to the nearby universities and private schools in Maine.

Anything for Emma.

Killian didn’t want to leave it at that, so, with a reassuring squeeze of the hand that he recaptured, he broke down the wall again, “Besides, Neal should be taking care of Gold’s proclivity for messing with my life fairly soon.”

“I sure hope so.”

 

They went to David and Mary Margaret’s the next afternoon before the Christmas Eve party, Henry excitedly hugging his grandparents and telling them about all the sights he had seen in the Big Apple. Emma had already called her mother and filled her in on the Neal situation, but she had yet to broach the subject of her and Killian’s relationship. 

She should have known that her mother and father would see right through her. Henry dragged Killian off into the living room to see the tree, intentionally giving her and her parents some alone time.

“So, Killian?” Her mother asked, arms crossed over her chest and brows raised.

Emma laughs a little to herself, “Yeah, I guess it’s kind of… unexpected.”

David burst out laughing, Mary Margaret slapping him on the arm. Emma looked between the two of them, mother joining father in giggling, “What?”

After they managed to stop laughing, her mother and father brought her into a hug, Mary Margaret admitting that, “We definitely expected it, honey.”

“Oh.” 

At that point, Killian came back in, Henry in tow, and they sat around in the kitchen around coffee and cocoa, talking about nothing in particular, until it came time to leave for the party.

The diner was crowded already, folks dressed in their Christmas best—red and green wore a path through the sweaters, dress shirts, and dresses of Storybrooke’s population. Emma felt a little underdressed with her emerald blouse and black jeans, but with Killian as her arm candy and Henry preceding her, people were more curious about her company than insulting of her fashion sense. Besides, she was the sheriff, and David and Mary Margaret’s daughter. She could wear whatever she wanted and still be respected and beloved.

Though, apparently, her choice of date was in question. Emma answered the question again and again, _Yes, we are dating. No, he’s not moving in, just visiting for Christmas._

People with whom Emma had been friends for years were supportive, but those who she had helped as sheriff, those who didn’t participate in the faire, they wondered—to her face—if she couldn’t use a man who could love her fully. The first person who said that was a friend of Lacey’s, which, by extension made them within Gold’s sphere of influence. By the third person who doubted her relationship with Killian, she had had enough. While she had been doing a circuit, Killian had stayed in the corner, a designated babysitter for all the kids who had come to Henry’s side, asking him how New York had been. Henry was regaling them with the tale of the Statue of Liberty when Emma sidled next to Killian, voice low.

“I have to pay someone a visit. Sheriff stuff. Can you handle Henry?” He nodded solemnly as if she was giving him a military command and found her coat for her. She kissed him on the cheek and made her way out of the diner, headed towards Gold’s pawn shop.

The man himself was just locking up, cane in one hand and keys in the other.

“You’re trying to make Killian a pariah.” Her voice was inflectionless, lifting above the cold air and grasping at something in Gold, making him stop, hunched over the doorknob.

“How was your trip to New York?” Classic deflection. 

“You know how it was; Neal called you. But let me give you a sneak peek at what he’s going to say once he and his lovely wife get up here: Stay away from Killian. Don’t talk about him, don’t look at him, or your son will never speak to you again.”

Gold tenses at the mention of his wife. He had counted on Emma wanting to leave her more-than-friendship with Killian for a chance at her first love again. Counted on Henry wanting his father in his life more than Killian. He had underestimated his son, his grandson, and Emma. 

Now was the time he pay for it.

“And how do you know that my son will go through with that, hmm? You didn’t know him when you were in love with him, and you still don’t know him.”

Emma scoffed, “I can call him at Tamara’s folks’ place in Hartford. They’ll head straight back to Queens without so much as a glance up Route 89.”

A sneer marred Gold’s features, “What about his son? Neal certainly will want to spend time with the boy, regardless of my presence.”

“Henry can always take vacation down in New York. He loves his room in Killian’s apartment.” Emma smiled viciously. She was failing to mention that it was a guest room, but Gold didn’t have to know that. 

“Neal wants to see me. He wouldn’t be coming if he didn’t.”

“He wants to negotiate with you, to see if you can be a good person. I’m simply making a preliminary deal. Neal’s desire to come up here is already tentative; if I tell him the high school type crap you’re trying to pull with Killian, it’ll be a no-go for him.” Emma wasn’t lying. Neal didn’t hold much love for his father, especially now that he knew he had killed his mother. 

“I’m willing to wager my son doesn’t even like your Killian.”

“Killian’s been a loyal customer of his shop for a while, as well as a friend to Henry, and you’re the bastard who killed his mother. Tell me who wins that cage fight.” Emma walked away without another word, low boot heels clicking on the frozen pavement.

Gold’s voice quivered in the night as he shouted after her, “Fine. I’ll leave him alone. Just don’t tell Neal.” 

Emma’s voice was quiet as she stopped mid-step, still facing away, but the street was empty and Gold was rapt, holding his breath in anticipation, “Good enough.”

She made it back to the party quickly, leaving Gold in stunned silence behind her. Killian was in conversation with her father, Mary Margaret having taken charge of Henry and his coterie of excited children. Emma greeted both her lover and her father with a kiss on the cheek, glad to see them getting along. 

Gold never did come to the party.

 

Christmas was a family affair, quaint but cherished by her and Henry. All the adults had spoiled Henry, each getting him more than one present, one of which was usually a book, the others a game or gift card. While Emma had expected to be the only one giving Killian a gift, she should not have doubted the kindness of her parents, who had gone in on a first edition facsimile of Walt Whitman’s _Leaves of Grass._

“It’s gorgeous,” He said, caressing the cover and looking through the original drawings accompanying the poems. 

“We thought it would be something you and your students could enjoy,” Mary Margaret agreed, beaming. 

Emma had never been more grateful for her mother’s hopeful, unswervingly caring nature, and the loyalty her father had to her and Emma, and, by extension, Killian.

Her parents had gotten her a new vacuum that actually vacuumed—her old one had been a thrift find, and not a very good one at that—and Emma was downright excited at the prospect of getting the dust-bunnies under her bed. Mary Margaret had also given her the pair of ruby earrings that Emma had coveted since childhood, stealing them to wear to school dances and concerts. 

Of course, Emma had agonized over what to get Killian for days, wandering around New York shops, before she found an instrument store that sold beautiful hand-crafted rosewood baby harps. Killian stared at the instrument in awe after opening it for more than a moment, running a hand over the smooth wood, but then chuckled as he pushed her present towards her.

“Looks like we had similar ideas, love.” Her package was longer, rectangular and not too heavy, but opening the box revealed a case she knew too well. 

“Oh, Killian,” She pulled the beautiful violin out of the case, caressing the spruce of the top gently. This was nicer than even the one she had taken to music school.

“I didn’t buy a bow because I figured you’d want to find one that had the right sound, but the luthier said his friend has a shop in Portland; the card’s in there…” Killian was rambling, hand scratching at the back of his neck and face flushed. Emma stopped him with a kiss.

“You know this is too much,” She whispered in his ear, giving them a semblance of privacy.

“If it helps, I bought it before we realized... I just wanted you to have the total package. You gave up the violin for Henry. Now you have both of them.” His voice was rough against her cheek, raw with emotion. Tears pricked at the back of her eyes and her throat was tight. 

“You’re too good to me.”

“Says the woman who bought me a gorgeous instrument I can play with one hand.”

“Says the man who bought me a beautiful quality violin.” She grinned, eyes glistening as they met his. He pressed a soft kiss to her lips, explanation enough for his complete splurge.

Mary Margaret and David pulled Henry into the kitchen to make breakfast and Killian let out a breath and responded with a fiery kiss once they were out of eyesight. 

“I love you,” She breathed into his mouth, stealing a gasp from him. 

“Wasn’t trying to buy your love, Emma.” His hand caressed her cheek and she leaned into the touch like a cat, letting out a slow grin. 

“You already had it.” 

There had already been an admission of love, but it hadn’t been blatant. Emma wanted him to know. She kissed him again, their lips parting with a smack and sparkling eyes.

“God, I love you so much,” He murmured into the curtain of her hair, fingers gripping the nape of her neck like a lifeline.

“Not just family three months of the year?” His not-hand no longer twitched with phantom pain at the mention of some of the hurtful things he and Emma had said to each other in the course of that turbulent summer. He had adjusted.

“I want to be with you twelve months of the year. I want to wake you up with kisses and make you late for work, God, Emma. I want the total package.” She groaned.

“You work in New York.”

He gave her a smirk, just shy of rakish, “I’m working on that, love.”

 

Henry was occupied with his Christmas gifts for days, as were Killian and Emma. They made a trip to Portland once Neal and Tamara arrived, letting them watch Henry while Emma picked out a bow that let out a somber, smooth, resonant sound when she played. 

Emma bought the bow herself, but Killian insisted on buying her rosin and shoulder rest, saying that it completed the gift. The days before the New Year passed in a flurry of instrument practice, as well as spending time with Henry, Tamara, Neal, and her parents. Of course, there was a New Years’ Eve party at Granny’s, which Emma wore a very little black dress for—so Killian was grateful when her parents took Henry and they had the apartment to themselves.

But before long it was time for Killian to go again, and Emma and Henry drove him to the bus station, each sharing a tender goodbye with him.

He came back up during his February and April vacations, as promised, and their relationship stayed strong through an inordinate amount of Skyping, texting, and even sending each other silly snapchats. Henry’s adoration for Killian did not fade over the months, even when Neal took a few weeks in March to spend with Henry and his own father. 

Emma didn’t get involved with Neal and Gold’s business. To be truthful, she didn’t want to know. Killian was accepted by Storybrooke after her confrontation with the man and that was what mattered to her. 

Little did she know, but he had accepted Storybrooke as well. 

In June, when faire season and her and Killian’s new tenure in _Peter Pan_ began, Killian arrived outside her apartment with boxes of stuff and a grin.

“Guess who just got a job at the University of Southern Maine?” 

“No,” She said in disbelief, still standing on the stoop. 

His grin was blinding, “Yes.”

Emma threw herself into his arms, nearly knocking them both down as she showered kisses over his face, “Fucking finally,” She breathed out against his lips. 

“Finally,” He whispered back, arms circling tightly around her as he lowered her feet to the ground, lips insisting against hers, swallowing her quiet moans with the open heat of his mouth. They parted with ruddied lips and shallow breaths. 

She regained her senses first and punched his arm, “That’s for not warning me.”

“It was supposed to be a surprise,” He said sheepishly, rubbing at the arm with his prosthetic as if it were a real hand. 

“Fine. Then it’s for not warning Henry.” She always won arguments by bringing in Henry—he was her secret weapon.

Killian laughed with triumph, “Hah! Too bad I already did.”

_Of course he did. That’s why he said he was too busy to come greet Killian. Little liar._

Emma pouted, going in for another kiss, “Not fair.”

“All’s fair in love and war, according to English Renaissance poet John Lyly.” 

“Whatever you say, _Professor._ ” He grins at the word, pulling her back into his embrace and kissing them both breathless. 

“C’mon Peter Pan. We’ve got a show to do.”


End file.
